True  Tilda 

By 

AT.  Quiller= Couch 


AT   LOS  ANGELES 


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/> 


*'.'•■;         .^^ 


TRUE   TILDA 


TRUE  TILDA 


BY 

A.  T.  QUILLER-COUCH 


(-Q-) 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK     :::::::::     1909 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  August,  1909 


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CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PAQB 

I.    At  the  Sign  of  the  Good  Samaritan  1 

II.    How  True  Tilda  Came  to  Dolorous 

Gard 12 

III.  A  Kidnapping 27 

IV.  In  which  Childe  Arthur  Loses  One 

Mother  and  Gains  Another      .    .  45 

V.    Temporary     Embarrassments     of     a 

Thespian 55 

VI.    Mr.  Mortimer's  Adventure  ....  68 

VII.    In  which  Mr.  Hucks  Takes  a  Hand  .  77 

VIII.    Flight 90 

IX.    Freedom 103 

V 


36iC6() 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAOE 

X.    The  Four  Diamonds 120 

XI.    The  "Stratford-on-Avon"      .     .     .  131 

XII.    Pursued 146 

XIII.  Adventure  of  the  Furred  Collar  .  161 

XIV.  Adventure  of  the  Primrose  Fete  .  174 
XV.    Adventure  of  the  Fat  Lady      .    .  190 

XVI.    Adventures  of  the  "Four  Alls" 

AND  OF  the  Celestial  Chemist    .  207 

XVII.    By  Weston  Weir 223 

XVIII.    Down  Avon 236 

XIX.    The  S.S.  Evan  Evans 253 

XX.    Inistow  Farm 277 

XXI.    The  Hunted  Stag 297 

XXII.    The  Voyage 312 

XXIII.    The  Island 334 

vi 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAQB 

XXIV.    Glasson  in  Chase 346 

XXV.    Miss  Sally  Breaks  the  Doors  .    .  365 

XXVI.    The  Rescue „     ...  382 

Epilogue 394 


Vll 


TRUE    TILDA 

CHAPTER  I 

AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN 

"  That  it  may  please  Thee  to  preserve  all  that  travel  by  land 
or  by  water  .  .  .  all  sick  persons,  and  young  children." 

— The  Litany. 

"I  LOVE  my  love  with  a  H'aitch,  because  he's  'and- 


some 

Tilda  turned  over  on  her  right  side — she  could  do  so 
now  without  pain — and  lifting  herself  a  little,  eyed  the 
occupant  of  the  next  bed.  The  other  six  beds  in  the 
ward  were  empty. 

"I  'ate  'im,  because — look  'ere,  I  don't  believe  you're 
listenin'?" 

The  figure  in  the  next  bed  stirred  feebly;  the  figure 
of  a  woman,  straight  and  gaunt  under  the  hospital  bed- 
clothes. A  tress  of  her  hair  had  come  uncoiled  and 
looped  itself  across  the  pillow — reddish  auburn  hair, 
streaked  with  gray.  She  had  been  brought  in,  three 
nights  ago,  drenched,  bedraggled,  chattering  in  a  high 
fever;    a  case  of  acute  pneumonia.     Her  delirium  had 

1 


TRUE  TILDA 

kept  Tilda — who  was  preternaturally  sharp  for  her  nine 
years — awake  and  curious  during  the  better  part  of  two 
night-watches.  Then  after,  for  a  day  and  a  night  and 
half  a  day,  the  patient  had  lain  somnolent,  breathing 
hard,  at  intervals  feebly  conscious.  In  one  of  these 
intervals  her  eyes  had  wandered  and  found  the  child; 
and  since  then  had  painfully  sought  her  a  dozen  times, 
and  found  her  again  and  rested  on  her. 

Tilda,  meeting  that  look,  had  done  her  best.  The 
code  of  the  show-folk,  to  whom  she  belonged,  ruled  that 
persons  in  trouble  were  to  be  helped.  Moreover,  the 
long  whitewashed  ward,  with  its  seven  oblong  windows 
set  high  in  the  wall — the  smell  of  it,  the  solitude,  the 
silence — bored  her  inexpressibly.  She  had  lain  here 
three  weeks  with  a  hurt  thigh-bone  bruised,  but  luckily 
not  splintered,  by  the  kick  of  a  performing  pony. 

The  ward  reeked  of  yellow  soap  and  iodoform.  She 
would  have  exchanged  these  odours  at  the  price  of  her 
soul — but  souls  are  not  vendible,  and  besides,  she  did 
not  know  she  possessed  one — for  the  familiar  redolences 
of  naphtha  and  horse-dung  and  trodden  turf.  These 
were  far  away:  they  had  quite  forsaken  her,  or  at  best 
floated  idly  across  her  dreams.  What  held  her  to  forti- 
tude had  been  the  drone  and  intermittent  hoot  of  a 
steam-organ  many  streets  away.  It  belonged  to  a  round- 
about, and  regularly  tuned  up  toward  evening;  so  dis- 
tant that  Tilda  could  not  distinguish  one  tune  from  an- 
other; only  the  thud  of  its  bass  mingled  with  the  buzz 

2 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN 

of  a  fly  on  the  window  and  with  the  hard  breathing  of 
the  sick  woman. 

Sick  persons  must  be  amused:  and  Tilda,  after  try- 
ing the  patient  unsuccessfully  with  a  few  jokes  from  the 
repertoire  of  her  own  favourite  clown,  had  fallen  back 
upon  "I  love  my  love" — about  the  only  game  known 
to  her  that  dispensed  with  physical  exertion. 

"Sleepin',  are  you?  .  .  .  Well,  I'll  chance  it  and  go 
on.  I  'ate  'im  because  he's  'aughty — or  'igh-born,  if 
you  like " 

The  figure  beneath  the  bedclothes  did  not  stir.  Tilda 
lifted  herself  an  inch  higher  on  the  elbow;  lifted  her 
voice,  too,  as  she  went  on : 

"And  I'll  take  'im  to— 'Olmness " 

She  had  been  watching,  expecting  some  effect.  But 
it  scared  her  when,  after  a  moment,  the  woman  raised 
herself  slowly,  steadily,  until  half-erect  from  the  waist. 
A  ray  of  the  afternoon  sun  fell  slantwise  from  one  of 
the  high  windows,  and,  crossed  by  it,  her  eyes  blazed 
like  lamps  in  their  sockets. 

" and  feed  'im  on  'am!"  concluded  Tilda  hur- 
riedly, slipping  down  within  her  bedclothes  and  draw- 
ing them  tight  about  her.  For  the  apparition  was 
stretching  out  a  hand.  The  hand  drew  nearer.  "It's 
— it's  a  name  came  into  my  'ead,"  quavered  the  child. 

"Who  .  .  .  told  ...  you?"  The  fingers  of  the 
hand  had  hooked  themselves  like  a  bird's  claw. 

"Told  me  yerself.     I  'eard  you,  night  before  last, 

3 


TRUE  TILDA 

when  you  was  talkin'  wild.  ...  If  you  try  to  do  me 
any  'arm,  I'll  call  the  Sister." 

"Holmness?" 

"  You  said  it.  Strike  me  dead  if  you  didn'!"  Tilda 
fetched  a  grip  on  herself;  but  the  hand,  its  fingers  clos- 
ing on  air,  drew  back  and  dropped,  as  though  cut  off 
from  the  galvanising  current.  She  had  even  presence 
of  mind  to  note  that  the  other  hand — the  hand  on  which 
the  body  propped  itself,  still  half-erect,  wore  a  plain 
ring  of  gold.  "You  talked  a  lot  about  'Olmness — and 
Arthur.    'Oo's  Arthur?" 

But  the  patient  had  fallen  back,  and  lay  breathing 
hard.  When  she  spoke  again  all  the  vibration  had  gone 
out  of  her  voice. 

"Tell  them  .  .  .  Arthur  .  .  .  fetch  Arthur  .  .  ." 
The  words  trailed  off  into  a  whisper.  Still  the  lips 
moved  as  though  speech  fluttered  upon  them;  but  no 
speech  came. 

"You  just  tell  me  where  he  is,  and  maybe  we'll 
fetch  'im,"  said  Tilda  encouragingly. 

The  eyes,  which  had  been  fixed  on  the  child's,  and 
with  just  that  look  you  may  note  in  a  dog's  eyes  when 
he  waits  for  his  master's  word,  wandered  to  the  table 
by  the  bedside,  and  grew  troubled,  distressful. 

"Which  of  'em?"  asked  Tilda,  touching  the  medi- 
cine bottles  and  glasses  there  one  by  one. 

But  the  patient  seemed  to  shake  her  head,  though 
with  a  motion  scarcely  perceptible. 

4 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN 

She  could  talk  no  more. 
Tilda  lay  back  thinking. 

"Sister!"  she  said,  twenty  minutes  later,  when  the 
Second  Nurse  entered  the  ward.  The  Second  Nurse 
had  charge  just  now,  the  matron  being  away  on  her 
August  holiday. 

"Well,  dear?" 

"She  wants  something."  Tilda  nodded  toward  the 
next  bed. 

"To  be  sure  she  does,  and  I'm  going  to  give  it  to 
her."  The  Second  Nurse,  composed  in  all  her  move- 
ments, bent  over  the  medicine  table. 

"Gam!"  retorted  Tilda.  "It's  easy  seen  you  wasn* 
brought  up  along  with  animals.  Look  at  the  eyes  of 
her." 

"Well?"  The  Second  Nurse,  after  a  long  look  at 
the  patient,  turned  to  Tilda  again. 

"You  mind  my  tellin'  you  about  Black  Sultan  ?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  He  was  the  one  with  the  bearing 
rein  and  the  white  martingale.  Miss  Montagu  rode 
him." 

"Right-O!"  Tilda  nodded.  "Well,  they  used  to 
come  on  next  turn  to  mine,  which  was  the  Zambra 
Fambly,  as  before  the  Crowned  'eads — only  there  wasn' 
no  fambly  about  it,  nor  yet  no  'eads.  Me  bein'  'andy 
an'  dressed  up,  with  frizzy  'air,  they  stood  me  on  a  tub 
with  a  'oop,  makin'  believe  'twas  for  Miss  Montagu  to 

5 


TRUE  TILDA 

jump  through;  but  of  course  she  didn',  reely.  When 
she  came  round  to  me  she'd  only  smile  and  touch  me 
playful  under  the  chin;  and  that  made  the  sixpenny 
seats  say,  "Ow  womanly!'  or,  'Only  think!  able  to  ride 
like  that  and  so  fond  of  children!'  Matter  of  fact,  she 
'ad  none;  and  her  'usband,  Mike  O'Halloran,  used  to 
beat  her  for  it  sometimes,  when  he'd  had  a  drop  of 
What-killed-Aunty.    He  was  an  Irishman." 

"You  didn't  start  to  tell  me  about  Mr.  O'Halloran." 
"No.  He  wasn'  your  sort  at  all;  and  besides,  he's 
dead.  But  about  Black  Sultan — Miss  Montagu  used 
to  rest  'im,  'alf-way  in  his  turn,  while  the  clown  they 
called  Bimbo — but  his  real  name  was  Ernest  Stanley — 
as't  a  riddle  about  a  policeman  and  a  red  'errin'  in  a 
newspaper.  She  always  rested  alongside  o'  me;  and 
I  always  stood  in  the  same  place,  right  over  a  ring-bolt 
where  they  made  fast  one  of  the  stays  for  the  trapeze; 
and  regular  as  Black  Sultan  rested,  he'd  up  with  his  off 
hind  foot  and  rub  the  pastern-bone,  very  soft,  on  the 
ring-bolt.  So  one  day  I  unscrewed  an'  sneaked  it,  jus' 
to  see  what  he'd  do.  When  he  felt  for  it  an'  missed  it, 
he  gave  me  a  look.  That's  all.  An'  that's  what's  the 
matter  with  'er." 

"But  what  can  she  be  missing?"  asked  the  Second 
Nurse.    "She  had  nothing  about  her  but  an  old  purse, 
and  nothing  in  the  purse  but  a  penny-ha'penny." 
"It  don't  sound  much,  but  we  might  try  it." 
"Nonsense!"  said  the  Second  Nurse;  but  later  in  the 

6 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN 

evening  she  brought  the  purse,  and  set  it  on  the  table 
where  the  patient's  eyes  might  rest  on  it.  For  aught 
she  could  detect,  they  expressed  no  thanks,  gave  no 
flicker  of  recognition.  But  the  child  had  been  watching 
them,  too,  and  was  quicker — by  one-fifth  of  a  second, 
perhaps. 

It  was  half-past  eight,  and  the  Sister  turned  low  the 
single  gas-jet.  She  would  retire  now  to  her  own  room, 
change  her  dress  for  the  night-watching,  and  return  in 
about  twenty  minutes.  The  door  had  no  sooner  closed 
upon  her  than  Tilda  stretched  out  a  hand.  The  sick 
woman  watched,  panting  feebly,  making  no  sign.  The 
purse — a  cheap  thing,  stamped  with  forget-me-nots, 
and  much  worn  at  the  edges  where  the  papier-mach^ 
showed  through  its  sham  leather — contained  a  penny 
and  a  halfpenny;  these,  and  in  an  inner  stamp-pocket 
a  scrap  of  paper,  folded  small,  and  greasy  with  handling. 

Still  peering  across  in  the  dim  light,  Tilda  undid  the 
broken  folds  and  scrambled  up  to  her  knees  on  the 
bed.  It  cost  her  a  twinge  of  pain,  but  only  by  standing 
upright  on  the  bed's  edge  could  she  reach  the  gas- 
bracket to  turn  the  flame  higher.  This  meant  pain 
sharper  and  more  prolonged,  yet  she  managed  it,  and, 
with  that,  clenched  her  teeth  hard  to  keep  down  a  cry. 
The  child  could  swear,  on  occasion,  like  a  trooper;  but 
this  was  a  fancy  accomplishment.  Just  now,  when  an 
oath  would  have  come  naturally  to  a  man,  she  felt  only  a 
choking  in  the  throat,  and  swallowed  it  down  with  a  sob. 

7 


TRUE  TILDA 

On  the  paper  were  four  lines,  written  in  pencil  in  a 
cramped  hand;  and,  alas!  though  Tilda  could  read 
print,  she  had  next  to  no  acquaintance  with  hand- 
writing. 

The  words  were  a  blur  to  her.  She  stared  at  them; 
but  what  she  saw  was  the  gaze  of  the  sick  woman,  up- 
turned to  her  from  the  bed.  The  scrap  of  paper  hid  it, 
and  yet  she  saw.    She  must  act  quickly. 

She  gave  a  reassuring  nod,  turned  the  gas-jet  low, 
and  slid  down  into  bed  with  the  paper  clenched  in  her 
hand.  But  as  her  head  touched  the  pillow  she  heard 
a  rustling  noise,  and  craned  up  her  neck  again.  The 
patient  had  rolled  over  on  her  left  side,  facing  her,  fight- 
ing for  breath. 

"Yes,  yes,"  Tilda  lied  hardily.  "To-morrow — Arthur 
— they  shall  send  for  him  to-morrow." 

"Four,"  said  the  sick  woman.  The  word  was  quite 
distinct.  Another  word  followed  which  Tilda  could 
not  catch. 

"Four  o'clock,  or  may  be  earlier,"  she  promised. 

"L — 1 — lozenges,"  the  tongue  babbled. 

Tilda  glanced  toward  the  medicine  table. 

"Diamonds,"  said  the  voice  with  momentary  firm- 
ness; "four  diamonds  ...  on  his  coat  ...  his  fa- 
ther's .  .  .  his  .  .  ." 

"Four  diamonds,  yes?"  the  child  repeated. 

"  Ned  did  them  ...  he  told  me  .  .  .  told  me  .  .  . " 

But  here  the  voice  wavered  and  trailed  off  into  bab- 

8 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN 

ble,  meaningless  as  a  year-old  infant's.  Tilda  listened 
hard  for  a  minute,  two  minutes,  then  dropped  her  head 
back  on  her  pillow  as  the  door-handle  rattled.  It  was 
the  Second  Nurse  returning  for  night  duty. 

Early  next  morning  the  Doctor  came — a  thin  young 
man  with  a  stoop,  and  a  crop  of  sandy  hair  that  stood 
upright  from  his  forehead.    Tilda  detested  him. 

He  and  the  Second  Nurse  talked  apart  for  quite  a 
long  while,  and  paid  no  attention  to  the  child,  who  lay 
shamming  a  doze,  but  with  her  ears  open. 

She  heard  the  Doctor  say: 

"She?    Oh,  move  her  to  the  far  end  of  the  ward." 

The  Second  Nurse  muttered  something,  and  he  went 
on: 

"She  is  well,  practically.  All  she  wants  now  is  some 
one  to  keep  an  eye  on  her,  make  her  lie  up  for  a  couple 
of  hours  every  day,  and  box  her  ears  if  she  won't." 

"That's  me,"  thought  Tilda.  "I'm  to  be  moved  out 
of  the  way  because  t'other's  going  to  die;  and  if  she's 
going  to  die,  there's  no  time  to  be  lost." 

She  stirred,  lifted  her  head,  and  piped: 

"Doctor!" 

"Hullo,  imp!    I  thought  you  were  sleeping." 

"So  I  was.  I  sleep  'caps  better  now."  She  drew  her 
hurt  leg  up  and  down  in  the  bed.  "Doctor,  I'd  be  all 
right,  certain  sure,  if  you  let  me  out  for  arf-an-hour. 
Sister  let  me  sit  out  for  ever  so  long  yestiday,  an'  while 

9 


TRUE  TILDA 

she  was  dustin'  out  the  men's  ward  I  practised  walkin' 
— all  the  lenth  of  the  room  an'  back." 

"When  I  told  you  never,  on  any  account!"  the  Sister 
scolded. 

"If  I'd  only  the  loan  of  a  crutch!"  pleaded  Tilda; 
"an'  it  couldn'  do  me  no  'arm  in  this  weather." 

"Pining  for  liberty,  hey?"  said  the  doctor.  (She 
saw  what  was  passing  through  his  mind,  and  despised 
him  for  it.)  "Well,  suppose,  now,  we  let  you  out  for 
just  half  an  hour?" 

Tilda  clapped  her  palms  together,  and  her  eyes  shone. 
To  herself  she  said:  "Kiddin'  of  me,  that's  what  they 
are.  Want  to  get  me  out  of  the  way  while  they  shift  the 
beddin'.  Lemme  get  back  my  clothes,  that's  all,  an'  I'll 
teach  him  about  pinin'  for  liberty." 

"But,"  said  the  doctor  severely,  lifting  a  finger, 
"you're  to  keep  to  the  pavement,  mind — just  outside, 
where  it's  nice  and  shady.  Only  so  far  as  the  next  turn- 
ing and  back;  no  crossing  anywhere  or  getting  in  the 
way  of  traffic,  and  only  for  half  an  hour.  The  chimes 
from  St.  Barnabas  will  tell  you,  if  you  can't  read  the 
clock." 

She  had  learnt  to  read  the  time  before  she  was  five 
years  old,  and  had  a  mind  to  tell  him,  but  checked  her- 
self and  merely  nodded  her  head. 

"Half  an  hour,  and  the  pavement  only.  Is  that 
understood?" 

"Honest!" 

10 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN 

It  annoyed  her — when,  an  hour  later,  she  began  to 
dress  for  the  adventure — to  find  herself  weaker  than 
she  had  at  all  supposed.  Although  she  forbore  to  men- 
tion it  to  the  Second  Nurse,  there  was  an  irresponsible 
funny  feeling  in  her  legs.  They  seemed  to  belong  to 
her  but  by  fits  and  starts.  But  the  clothes  were  hers: 
the  merino  skirt  a  deal  too  short  for  her — she  had 
grown  almost  an  inch  in  her  bed-lying — the  chip  hat, 
more  badly  crushed  than  ever,  a  scandal  of  a  hat,  but 
still  hers.  The  dear,  dear  clothes!  She  held  them  in 
both  hands  and  nuzzled  into  them,  inhaling  her  lost 
self  in  the  new-old  scent  of  liberty. 

When  at  length  her  hat  was  donned,  the  notion  took 
her  to  stand  by  the  sick  woman's  bed  to  show  herself. 

Consciousness  had  drained  away  deep  into  the  sick 
woman's  eyes.  It  wavered  there  darkly,  submerged, 
half-suspended,  as  you  may  see  the  weed  waver  in  a 
dim  seapool.  Did  a  bubble,  a  gleam,  float  up  from  the 
depths  ?    At  any  rate,  the  child  nodded  bravely. 

"Goin'  to  fetch  'im,  don't  you  fret!" 


n 


CHAPTER  II 

HOW  TRUE  TILDA    CAME  TO  DOLOROUS  CARD 

"Dauntless  the  slug-horn  to  my  lips  I  set 
And  blew  'Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  came.'" 

— Browning. 

Fifty  years  before,  the  Hospital  of  the  Good  Samari- 
tan had  been  the  pet  "charity"  of  a  residential  suburb. 
Factories  and  slums  had  since  crowded  in  upon  it,  oust- 
ing the  residents  and  creeping  like  a  tide  over  the  sites 
of  their  gardens  and  villas.  The  street  kept  its  ancient 
width,  and  a  few  smoke-blackened  trees — lilacs,  labur- 
nums, limes,  and  one  copper-beech — still  dignified  the 
purlieus.  Time,  ruthless  upon  these  amenities,  had 
spared,  and  even  enlarged,  the  hospital. 

It  stood  on  the  shaded  side  of  the  street.  Neverthe- 
less, the  sunshine,  reflected  from  the  fa9ade  of  mean 
houses  across  the  way,  dazzled  Tilda  as  she  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  great  doorway  and  hopped  down  the 
steps.  There  were  five  steps,  and  on  the  lowest  she 
paused,  leaning  a  moment  on  her  crutch  before  taking 
the  final  plunge  into  liberty. 

Then,  while  she  stood  blinking,  of  a  sudden  a  yellow- 
ish-brown body  bounded  at  her  out  of  the  sun-dazzle, 

12 


HOW  TILDA  CAME  TO  DOLOROUS  GARD 

pushed  her  tottering,  danced  back,  and  leapt  at  her 
again,  springing  to  lick  her  face,  and  uttering  sharp, 
inarticulate  noises  from  a  throat  bursting  with  bliss. 

'"Dolph!  O'Dolph!" 

Tilda  sank  on  the  lowest  step  and  stretched  out  both 
arms.  The  dog,  rushing  between  them,  fairly  bowled 
her  backward;  lit  in  her  lap  and  twisted  his  body  round 
ecstatically,  thrusting,  nuzzling  at  her  bosom,  her  neck, 
her  face — devouring  her  with  love.  In  her  weakness 
she  caught  him  round  the  chest,  close  behind  the  fore- 
legs, and  hugged  him  to  her.  So  for  a  quarter  of  a  min- 
ute the  two  rocked  together  and  struggled. 

'"Dolph!    O  good  dog!  .  .  .  Did  Bill  send  yer?" 

'Dolph,  recoiling,  shook  his  neck-ruff  and  prepared 
for  another  spring;  but  Tilda  pushed  him  back  and 
stood  up. 

"Take  me  along  to  him,"  she  commanded,  and  lifted 
her  face  impudently  to  the  clock-face  of  St.  Barnabas 
above  the  mean  roofs.  "Barnabas,  are  yer?  Then 
give  my  compliments  to  the  Doctor,  you  Barnabas,  an' 
tell  'im  to  cheese  it." 

'Dolph — short  for  Godolphus — pricked  both  ears 
and  studied  the  sky-line.  Perceiving  nothing  there — 
not  even  a  swallow  to  be  chased — he  barked  twice  (the 
humbug!)  for  sign  that  he  understood  thoroughly,  and 
at  once  fell  to  new  capers  by  way  of  changing  the  sub- 
ject. 

Tilda  became  severe. 

13 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Look  here,  Godolphus,"  she  explained,  "this  is  biz 
— strict  biz.  You  may  wag  your  silly  Irish  tail,  but 
that  don't  take  me  in.  Understand  ?  .  .  .  Well,  the 
first  thing  you  'ave  to  do  is  to  take  me  to  Bill." 

Godolphus  was  dashed ;  hurt,  it  may  be,  in  his  feel- 
ings. Being  dumb,  he  could  not  plead  that  for  three 
weeks  daily  he  had  kept  watch  on  the  hospital  door; 
that,  hungry,  he  had  missed  his  meals  for  faith,  which  is 
the  substance  of  things  unseen;  that,  a  few  hours  ago, 
having  to  choose  between  half-gods  assured  and  whole 
gods  upon  trust — an  almost  desperate  trust — he  had 
staked  against  the  odds.  Or,  it  may  be,  he  forgot  all 
this,  and  only  considered  what  lay  ahead  for  the  child. 
At  any  rate,  his  tail,  as  he  led  the  way,  wagged  at  a  sen- 
sibly lower  angle. 

"Bill  can  read  any  kind  of  'andwriting,"  said  Tilda, 
balf  to  herself  and  half  to  the  dog.  "What's  more,  and 
whatever's  the  matter,  Bill  'elps." 

So  she  promised  herself.  It  did  not  strike  her  that 
'Dolph — who  in  an  ordinary  way  should  have  been 
bounding  ahead  and  anon  bounding  back  to  gyrate  on 
his  hind  legs  and  encourage  her — preferred  to  trot 
ahead  some  thirty  or  forty  yards  and  wait  for  her  to 
overtake  him;  nor  that,  when  she  came  up,  he  avoided 
her  eyes,  pretending  that  here  a  doorstep,  there  a  grat- 
ing or  water-main  absorbed  his  curiosity.  Once  or 
twice,  indeed,  before  trotting  off  again,  he  left  these 
objects  of  interest  to  run  around  Tilda's  heels  and  rub 

14 


HOW  TILDA  CAME  TO  DOLOROUS  GARD 

against  her  crutch.  But  she  was  busy  with  her  own 
plans. 

So  through  a  zig-zag  of  four  or  five  dingy  streets  they 
came  to  one  she  recognised  as  that  leading  into  the  Plain, 
or  open  space  where  the  show-people  encamped.  At 
its  far  end  'Dolph  halted.  His  tail  still  wagged,  but  his 
look  was  sidelong,  furtive,  uneasy. 

Tilda,  coming  up  with  him,  stood  still  for  a  moment, 
stared,  and  caught  her  breath  with  a  little  gasp  of 
dismay. 

The  Plain  was  empty. 

Circus  and  menagerie,  swing-boats,  roundabouts, 
shooting-galleries — all  were  gone.  The  whole  area  lay 
trampled  and  bare,  with  puddles  where  the  steam- 
engines  had  stood,  and  in  the  puddles  bedabbled  relics 
of  paper  brushes,  confetti  bags,  scraps  torn  from  femi- 
nine flounces,  twisted  leaden  tubes  of  "ladies'  torment- 
ors" cast  away  and  half-trodden  into  the  mire;  the 
whole  an  unscavenged  desolation.  Her  folk — the  show- 
folk — had  deserted  her  and  vanished,  and  she  had  not 
a  penny  in  her  pocket.  It  cost  Tilda  all  her  pluck  to 
keep  what  she  called  a  tight  upper  lip.  She  uttered  no 
cry,  but  seated  herself  on  the  nearest  doorstep — appar- 
ently with  deliberation,  actually  not  heeding,  still  less 
caring,  to  whom  the  doorstep  belonged. 

"Oh,  'Dolph!"  she  murmured. 

To  her  credit,  in  the  act  of  appealing  to  him,  she 
understood    the   dog's   heroism,   and   again   stretched 

15 


TRUE  TILDA 

forth  her  arms.  He  had  been  waiting  for  this — sprang 
at  her,  and  again  was  caught  and  hugged.  Again  the 
two  forlorn  ones  rocked  in  an  embrace. 

Brief  ecstasy!  The  door  behind  them  was  con- 
structed in  two  portions,  of  which  the  upper  stood  wide, 
the  lower  deceptively  on  the  latch.  Against  this,  as  she 
struggled  with  Godolphus's  ardour,  Tilda  gave  a  back- 
ward lurch.  It  yielded,  flew  open,  and  child  and  dog 
together  rolled  in  across  the  threshold,  while  a  shop-bell 
jangled  madly  above  them. 

"Get  out  of  this — you  and  your  nasty  cur!" 

Tilda  picked  up  herself  and  her  crutch,  and  stood 
eyeing  the  shopwoman,  who,  summoned  by  the  bell, 
had  come  rushing  from  an  inner  room  and  in  no  sweet 
temper.  From  the  woman  she  glanced  around  the  shop 
— a  dairy-shop  with  a  marble-topped  counter,  and  upon 
the  counter  a  pair  of  scales  and  a  large  yellow  block  of 
margarine. 

"It  was  a  naccident,"  said  Tilda  firmly  and  with 
composure.  "And  my  dog  isn'  a  nasty  cur;  it  only 
shows  your  ignorance.    Be  quiet,  'Dolph!" 

She  had  to  turn  and  shake  her  crutch  at  Godolphus, 
who,  perceiving  his  mistress's  line  of  action,  at  once,  in  his 
impulsive  Irish  way,  barked  defiance  at  the  shopwoman. 

But  the  shopwoman's  eyes  rested  on  the  crutch,  and 
the  sight  of  it  appeared  to  mollify  her. 

" My  gracious!  I  do  believe  you're  the  child  was  hurt 
at  Maggs's  Circus  and  taken  to  hospital." 

16 


HOW  TILDA  CAME  TO  DOLOROUS  GARD 

Tilda  nodded. 

"Did  you  see  me?" 

"  Carried  by  on  a  stretcher — and  your  face  the  colour 
of  that."   The  woman  pointed  to  the  marble  counter-top. 

"I  was  a  serious  case,"  said  Tilda  impressively. 
*'The  people  at  the  Good  Samaritan  couldn'  remember 
admittin'  the  likes  of  it.    There  were  complications." 

"You  don't  say!" 

"But  what's  become  of  Maggs's?" 

"Maggs's  left  a  week  ago  come  Tuesday.  I  know, 
because  they  used  to  buy  their  milk  of  me.  They  were 
the  first  a'most,  and  the  last  was  the  Menagerie  and 
Gavel's  Roundabouts.  Theij  packed  up  last  night.  It 
must  be  a  wearin'  life,"  commented  the  shopwoman. 
"  But  for  my  part  I  like  the  shows,  and  so  I  tell  Damper 
—that's  my  'usband.  They  put  a  bit  of  colour  into  the 
place  while  they  last,  besides  bein'  free-'andeder  with 
their  money.  Light  come  light  go,  I  reckon;  but  any- 
way, it's  different  from  cows.  So  you  suffered  from 
complications,  did  you?" 

"Internal,"  Tilda  assured  her  in  a  voice  as  hollow  as 
she  could  make  it.  "I  must  have  spit  up  a  quart  of 
blood,  first  an'  last.  An'  the  medicine  I  'ad  to  take! 
You  wouldn't  think  it,  but  the  colour  was  pale  'elio- 
trope." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Damper  sympathetically — 
"I  wonder  it  stayed  in  the  stomach." 

"Itdidn'." 

17 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Wouldn'  you  fancy  a  glass  o'  milk,  now?" 

"It's  very  kind  of  you."  Tilda  put  on  her  best  man- 
ners. "And  'ere's  'ealth!"  she  added  before  sipping, 
when  the  milk  was  handed  to  her. 

"And  the  dog — wouldn'  'e  like  something?" 

"Well,  since  you  mention  it — but  it's  givin'  you  a 
'eap  of  trouble.  If  you  'ave  such  a  thing  as  a  bun,  it 
don't  matter  'ow  stale." 

"I  can  do  better'n  that."  Mrs.  Damper  dived  into 
the  inner  room,  and  re-emerged  with  a  plateful  of  scraps. 
"There's  always  waste  with  children,"  she  explained, 
"and  I  got  five.  You  can't  think  the  load  off  one's 
shoulders  when  they're  packed  to  school  at  nine  o'clock. 
And  that,  I  dessay,"  she  wound  up  lucidly,  "is  what 
softened  me  t'ards  you.    Do  you  go  to  school,  now?" 

"Never  did,"  answered  Tilda,  taking  the  plate  and 
laying  it  before  Godolphus,  who  fell -to  voraciously. 

"I'd  like  to  tell  that  to  the  attendance  officer,"  said 
Mrs.  Damper  in  a  wistful  tone.  "  But  p'r'aps  it  might 
get  you  into  trouble?" 

"You're  welcome." 

"He  do  give  me  a  lot  of  worry;  and  it  don't  make 
things  easier  Damper's  threatenin'  to  knock  his  'ead 
off  if  ever  he  catches  the  man  darkenin'  our  door. 
Never  been  to  school,  'aven't  you  ?  I'd  like  to  tell  'im, 
and  that,  if  there's  a  law,  it  ought  to  be  the  same  for  all. 
But  all  my  children  are  'ealthy,  and  that's  one  conso- 
lation." 

18 


HOW  TILDA  CAME  TO  DOLOROUS  GARD 

'"Ealth's  the  first  thing  in  Hfe,"  agreed  Tilda.  "So 
they've  all  cleared  out? — the  shows,  I  mean." 

"Every  one — exceptin'  the  Theayter." 

"Mortimer's?"  Tilda  limped  to  the  open  door. 
"But  I  don't  see  him,  neither." 

"Mortimer's  is  up  the  spout.  First  of  all,  there  was 
trouble  with  the  lodgings;  and  on  top  of  that,  last 
Monday,  Mr.  Hucks  put  the  bailiffs  in.  This  mornin' 
he  sent  half  a  dozen  men,  and  they  took  the  show  to 
pieces  and  carried  it  off  to  Hucks's  yard,  where  I  hear 
he  means  to  sell  it  by  public  auction." 

"Who's  Mr.  Hucks?" 

"He's  the  man  that  farms  the  Plain  here— farms  it 
ovt,  I  mean,"  Mrs.  Damper  explained.  "He  leases  the 
ground  from  the  Corporation  and  lets  it  out  for  what 
he  can  make,  and  that's  a  pretty  penny.  Terrible  close- 
fisted  man  is  Mr.  Hucks." 

"Oh!"  said  Tilda,  enlightened.  "When  you  talked 
of  farmin',  you  made  me  wonder.  ...  So  they're  all 
gone  ?  And  Wolverhampton-way,  I  reckon.  That  was 
to  be  the  next  move." 

"I've  often  seen  myself  travellin'  in  a  caravan,"  said 
Mrs.  Damper  dreamily.  "Here  to-day  an'  gone  to- 
morrow, and  only  to  stretch  out  your  hand  whether  'tis 
hairpins  or  a  fry  in '-pan;  though  I  should  never  get 
over  travellin'  on  Sundays."  Here,  while  her  eyes 
rested  on  the  child,  of  a  sudden  she  came  out  of 
her  reverie  with  a  sharp  exclamation.     "Lord's  sake! 

19 


TRUE  TILDA 

You  ain't  goin'  to  tell  me  they've  left  you  in  'ospital, 
stranded!" 

"That's  about  it,"  said  Tilda  bravely,  albeit  with 
a  wry  litde  twist  of  her  mouth. 

"Butwhat'llyoudo?" 

"Oh,  I  dunno.  .  .  .  We'll  get  along  some'ow — eh, 
'Dolph  ?  Fact  is,  I  got  a  job  to  do,  an'  no  time  to  lose 
worryin'.    You  just  read  that." 

Tilda  produced  and  handed  her  scrap  of  paper  to 
Mrs.  Damper,  who  took  it,  unfolded  it,  and  perused 
the  writing  slowly. 

"Goin'  there?"  she  inquired  at  length. 

"That  depends."  Tilda  was  not  to  be  taken  off  her 
guard.    "I  want  you  to  read  what  it  says." 

"Yes,  to  be  sure — I  forgot  what  you  said  about  bav- 
in' no  schoolin'.  Well,  it  says:  'Arthur  Miles,  surname 
Chandon,  b.  Kingsand,  May  1st,  1888.  Rev.  Dr.  Pur- 
die  J.  Glasson,  Holy  Innocents'  Orphanage,  Bursfield, 
near  Birmingham' — leastways,  I  can't  read  the  last 
line  clear,  the  paper  bein'  frayed;  but  it's  bound  to  be 
what  I've  said." 

"Why?" 

"Why,  because  that's  the  address.  Holy  Innocents, 
down  by  the  canal — I  know  it,  of  course,  and  Dr.  Glas- 
son. Damper  supplied  'em  with  milk  for  over  six 
months,  an'  trouble  enough  we  had  to  get  our  money." 

"How  far  is  it?" 

"Matter  of  half  a  mile,  I  should  say — close  by  the 

20 


HOW  TILDA  CAME  TO  DOLOROUS  GARD 

canal.  You  cross  it  there  by  the  iron  bridge.  The 
tram '11  take  you  down  for  a  penny,  only  you  must  mind 
and  get  out  this  side  of  the  bridge,  because  once  you're 
on  the  other  side  it's  tuppence.  Haven't  got  a  penny  ? 
Well,"— Mrs.  Damper  dived  a  hand  into  her  till— "I'll 
give  you  one.  Bein'  a  mother,  I  can't  bear  to  see  chil- 
dren in  trouble." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Tilda.  "It'll  come  in  'andy; 
but  I  ain't  in  no  trouble  just  yet." 

"I  'spose,"  Mrs.  Damper  ventured  after  a  pause, 
"you  don't  feel  like  tellin'  me  what  your  business  might 
be  down  at  the  orphanage?    Not  that  I'm  curious." 

"I  can't."  This  was  perfectly  true,  for  she  herself 
did  not  know.  "  You  see,"  she  added  with  a  fine  air  of 
mystery,  "there's  others  mixed  up  in  this." 

Mrs.  Damper  sighed. 

"Well,  I  mustn' detain  you.  .  .  .  This  Arthur  Miles 
Chandon — he's  not  a  friend  of  yours  by  any  chance?" 

"He's  a — sort  of  connection,"  said  Tilda.  "You 
know  'im,  p'r'aps  ?" 

"Dear  me,  no!" 

"Oh," — the  child,  without  intending  it,  achieved  a 
fine  irony — "I  thought  you  seemed  interested.  Well, 
so  longi  and  thank  you  again — there's  a  tram  stoppin' 
at  the  corner!    Come  along,  'Dolph!" 

She  was  not — she  had  said  it  truthfully — by  any 
means  in  trouble  just  yet.    On  the  contrary,  after  long 

21 


TRUE  TILDA 

deprivation  she  was  tasting  life  again,  and  finding  it 
good.  The  streets  of  this  Bursfield  suburb  were  far 
from  suggestive  of  the  New  Jerusalem — a  City  of 
which,  by  the  way,  Tilda  had  neither  read  nor  heard. 
They  were,  in  fact,  mean  and  squalid,  begrimed  with 
smoke  and  imperfectly  scavenged.  But  they  were,  at 
least,  populous,  and  to  Tilda  the  faces  in  the  tram  and 
on  the  pavements  wore,  each  and  all,  a  friendly — almost 
an  angelic — glow.  The  tramcar  rolled  along  like  a  ce- 
lestial chariot  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  and  'Dolph,  run- 
ning beside  it  and  threading  his  way  in  and  out  between 
the  legs  of  the  passers-by,  was  a  hound  of  heaven  in  a 
coat  effluent  of  gold.  Weariness  would  come,  but  as 
yet  her  body  felt  no  weariness,  buoyed  upon  a  spirit 
a-tiptoe  for  all  adventure. 

The  tram  reached  the  iron  bridge  and  drew  up. 
She  descended,  asked  the  conductor  to  direct  her  to 
Holy  Innocents,  and  was  answered  with  a  jerk  of  the 
thumb. 

It  stood,  in  fact,  just  beyond  the  bridge,  with  a  high 
brick  wall  that  turned  off  the  street  at  right  angles  and 
overhung  the  towpath  of  the  canal.  Although  in  archi- 
tecture wholly  dissimilar,  the  building  put  her  in  mind 
of  the  Hospital  of  the  Good  Samaritan,  and  her  spirits 
sank  for  a  moment.  Its  fa9ade  looked  upon  the  street 
over  a  strip  of  garden  crowded  with  dingy  laurels.  It 
contained  a  depressingly  large  number  of  windows,  and 
it  seemed  to  her  that  they  were  at  once  bare  and  dirty. 

22 


HOW  TILDA  CAME  TO  DOLOROUS  GARD 

Also,  and  simultaneously,  it  occurred  to  her  that  she 
had  no  notion  what  step  to  take  next,  nor  how,  if  she 
rang  the  bell,  to  explain  herself.  She  temporised,  there- 
fore; whistled  to  'Dolph,  and  turned  aside  down  the 
steps  leading  to  the  towpath.  She  would  con  the  lie  of 
the  land  before  laying  siege — the  strength  of  the  castle 
before  summoning  the  defence. 

The  castle  was  patently  strong — strong  enough  to 
excuse  any  disheartenment.  Scarcely  a  window  pierced 
its  narrow  butt-end,  four  stories  high,  under  which  the 
steps  wound.  It  ended  just  where  they  met  the  tow- 
path,  and  from  its  angle  sprang  a  brick  wall  dead-blank, 
at  least  twelve  feet  high,  which  ran  for  eighty  or  ninety 
yards  along  the  straight  line  of  the  path.  Across  the 
canal  a  row  of  unkempt  cottage  gardens  sloped  to  the 
water,  the  most  of  them  fenced  from  the  brink  of  it 
with  decayed  palings,  a  few  with  elder  bushes  and 
barbed  wire  to  fill  up  the  gaps,  while  at  least  two  ended 
in  moraines  of  old  meat  tins  and  shards  of  crockery. 
And  between  these  containing  banks  wound  the  canal, 
shallow  and  waveless,  with  noisome  weeds  trailing  on 
its  surface  afloat  amid  soot  and  iridescent  patches  or 
pools  of  tar.  In  the  cottage  gardens  not  a  soul  was  at 
work,  nor,  by  their  appearance,  had  a  soul  worked  in 
them  for  years  past.  The  canal,  too,  was  deserted, 
save  for  one  long  monkey-boat,  black  as  Charon's 
barge,  that  lay  moored  to  a  post  on  the  towpath,  some 
seventy-odd  yards   up-stream,  near  where  the  wall  of 

23 


TRUE  TILDA 

the  Orphanage  ended.  Beyond  this,  and  over  a  line  of 
ragged  thorns,  the  bulk  of  a  red-brick  Brewery — its 
roof  crowned  with  a  sky-sign — closed  the  view. 

The  monkey-boat  lay  with  her  stem  down-stream, 
and  her  after-part — her  habitable  quarters — covered 
by  a  black  tarpaulin.  A  solitary  man  was  at  work 
shovelling  coal  out  of  her  middle  hold  into  a  large  metal 
bucket.  As  Tilda  hobbled  towards  him  he  hoisted  the 
full  bucket  on  his  shoulders,  staggered  across  the  tow- 
path  with  it,  and  shot  its  contents  into  a  manhole  under 
the  brick  wall.  Tilda  drew  near  and  came  to  a  halt, 
watching  him. 

"Afternoon,"  said  the  man,  beginning  to  shovel 
again. 

"Afternoon,"  responded  Tilda. 

He  was  a  young  man — she  could  detect  this  beneath 
his  mask  of  coal  dust.  He  wore  a  sack  over  his  shoul- 
ders, and  a  black  sou'wester  hat  with  a  hind-flap  that 
fell  low  over  his  neck.  But  she  liked  the  look  in  his 
eyes,  though  the  rims  of  them  were  red  and  the  brows 
caked  with  grit.  She  hked  his  voice,  too.  It  sounded 
friendly. 

"Is  this  the  Orph'nige?  What  they  call  'Oly  Inner- 
cents?"  she  asked. 

"That's  so,"  the  young  coalheaver  answered. 
"Want  to  get  in?" 

"I  do  an' I  don't,"  said  Tilda. 

"Then  take  my  advice  an'  don't." 

24 


HOW  TILDA  CAME  TO  DOLOROUS  GARD 

He  resumed  his  shovelling,  and  Tilda  watched  him 
for  a  while. 

"Nice  dorg,"  said  he,  breaking  off  and  throwing  an 
affable  nod  towards  Godolphus  who,  having  attracted 
no  attention  by  flinging  himself  on  the  grass  with  a 
lolling  tongue  and  every  appearance  of  fatigue,  was 
now  filling  up  the  time  in  quest  of  a  flea.  "  No  breed, 
but  he  has  points.    Where  did  you  pick  him  up  ?" 

"He  belongs  to  a  show." 

"Crystal  Pallus?" 

"And,"  pursued  Tilda,  "I  was  wonderin'  if  you'd 
look  after  him  while  I  step  inside?" 

She  threw  back  her  head,  and  the  man  whistled. 

"You're  a  trustin'  one,  I  must  say!" 

"You'd  never  be  mean  enough  to  make  off  with  'im, 
an'  I  won't  believe  it  of  you,"  spoke  up  Tilda  boldly. 

"Eh?  I  wasn'  talkin'  of  the  dorg,"  he  explained. 
"I  was  meanin'  the  Orph'nage.  By  all  accounts  'tisn' 
so  easy  to  get  in — an'  'tis  a  sight  harder  to  get  out." 

"I've  got  to  get  in,"  urged  Tilda  desperately.  "I've 
a  message  for  some  one  inside.  His  name's  Arthur 
Miles  Chandon." 

The  young  coalheaver  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know  'im,"  he  said.  "I'm  new  to  this  job, 
an'  they  don't  talk  to  me  through  the  coal-'ole.  But 
you  seem  a  well-plucked  one,  and  what  with  your 
crutch —    How  did  you  come  by  it?" 

"Kick  of  a  pony." 

25 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Seems  to  me  you've  been  a  good  deal  mixed  up  with 
animals,  for  your  age.    What  about  your  pa  and  ma?" 

"Never  'ad  none,  I  thank  Gord." 

''Eh?"  The  young  man  laid  down  his  shovel,  lifted 
the  flap  of  his  sou'wester,  and  scratched  the  back  of 
his  head  slowly.    "Let  me  get  the  hang  o'  that,  now." 

"I've  seen  fathers  and  mothers,"  said  the  sage  child, 
nodding  at  him;  "and  them  as  likes  'em  is  welcome 
to  'em." 

"Gor-a-mussy!"  half-groaned  the  young  man.  "If 
you  talk  like  that,  they'll  take  you  in,  right  enough; 
but  as  to  your  gettin*  out " 

"I'll  get  out,  one  way  or  'nother — you  see!"  Tilda 
promised.  "All  you  'ave  to  do  is  to  take  charge  o'  this 
crutch  an'  look  after  the  dog." 

"Oh,  I'll  look  after 'im!" 

The  child  shook  a  forefinger  at  'Dolph,  forbidding 
him  to  follow  her.  The  dog  sank  on  his  haunches, 
wagging  a  tail  that  swept  the  grasses  in  perplexed  pro- 
test, and  watched  her  as  she  retraced  her  way  along  the 
towpath. 

Tilda  did  not  once  look  back.  She  was  horribly 
frightened;  but  she  had  pledged  her  word  now,  and  it 
was  irredeemable.  From  the  hurrying  traffic  of  the 
street  she  took  a  final  breath  of  courage,  and  tugged  at 
the  iron  bell-pull  depending  beside  the  Orphanage 
gate.  A  bell  clanged  close  within  the  house,  and  the 
sound  of  it  almost  made  her  jump  out  of  her  boots. 

26 


CHAPTER  III 

A  KIDNAPPING 

"And  with  that  sound  the  castle  all  to-brast;   so  she  took 
him,  and  they  two  fared  forth  hand  in  hand." 

— "Quest  of  the  Grail." 

The  front  door  opened,  and  a  slatternly  woman  in  a 
soiled  print  dress  came  shufiBing  down  the  flagged 
pathway  to  the  gate.  She  wore  cloth  boots,  and  Tilda 
took  note  that  one  of  them  was  burst. 

"Go  away,"  said  the  woman,  opening  the  gate  just 
wide  enough  to  thrust  out  her  head.  "We  don't  give 
nothing  to  beggars." 

"I  could  'a  told  you  that,"  retorted  Tilda.  "But  as 
it  'appens,  I  ain't  one."  She  pointed  to  a  brass  letter- 
plate  beside  the  wicket — it  was  pierced  with  a  slit,  and 
bore  the  legend.  For  Voluntary  Donations.  "Seems 
you  collect  a  bit,  though.    Like  it  better,  I  dessay," 

"Look  here,  if  you've  come  with  a  message,  let's 
'ave  it,  an'  take  yourself  off.  It's  washing-day  in  the 
'ouse,  an'  I'm  busy." 

"Ah!"  said  Tilda  politely,  "I'm  glad  I  came  before 
you  begun.  I  want" — here  she  unfolded  her  scrap  of 
paper  and  made  pretence  to  read — "I  want  to  see  the 
Reverend  Doctor  Purdie  J.  Glasson." 

27 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Then  you  can't,"  snapped  the  woman,  and  was 
about  to  shut  the  door  in  her  face,  but  desisted  and 
drew  back  with  a  cry  as  a  formidable  yellow  dog  slipped 
through  the  opening,  past  her  skirts,  and  into  the  garden. 

It  was  'Dolph,  of  course.  Anxiety  for  his  mistress 
had  been  too  much  for  him,  and  had  snapped  the  bonds 
of  obedience;  and,  knowing  full  well  that  he  was  mis- 
behaving, he  had  come  up  furtively,  imperceived.  But 
now,  having  crossed  the  Rubicon,  the  rogue  must  brazen 
things  out — which  he  did  by  starting  a  cat  out  of  one  of 
the  dingy  laurels,  chivvying  her  some  way  into  the 
house,  and  returning  to  shake  himself  on  the  front 
doorstep  and  bark  in  absurd  triumph. 

"'Dolph!   'Dolph!"  called  Tilda. 

"Belongs  to  you,  does  he?  Then  fetch  him  out  at 
once!    You,  and  your  dogs!" 

"I'm  fetchin'  him  fast  as  I  can." 

Tilda  pushed  past  her,  and  advanced  sternly  to  the 
front  doorstep.  "  'Dolph,  come  here! "  she  commanded. 
'Dolph  barked  once  again  defiantly,  then  laid  himself 
down  on  the  step  in  abject  contrition,  rolling  over  on 
his  back  and  lifting  all  four  legs  skyward. 

Tilda  rolled  him  sideways  with  a  slap,  caught  him  by 
the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and  began  to  rate  him  soundly. 
But  a  moment  later  her  grasp  relaxed  as  a  door  opened 
within  the  passage,  and  at  the  sound  of  a  footstep  she 
looked  up,  to  see  a  tall  man  in  black  standing  over  her 
and  towering  in  the  doorway. 

28 


A  KIDNAPPING 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this  noise?"  demanded  the 
man  in  black.  He  was  elderly  and  bald,  with  small 
pig-eyes,  gray  side-whiskers,  and  for  mouth  a  hard 
square  slit  much  like  that  of  the  collecting-box  by  the 
gate.  A  long  pendulous  nose  came  down  over  it  and 
almost  met  an  upthrust  lower  jaw.  He  wore  a  clerical 
suit,  with  a  dingy  white  neck-tie;  the  skin  about  his 
throat  hung  in  deep  folds,  and  the  folds  were  filled  with 
an  unpleasing  gray  stubble. 

"If — if  you  please,  sir,  I  was  comin'  with  a  message 
an'  he  started  after  a  cat.    I  can't  break  'im  of  it." 

"Turn  him  out,"  said  the  man  in  black.  He  walked 
to  the  gate  and  held  it  open  while  Tilda  ejected  Godol- 
phus  into  the  street.  "I  never  allow  dogs  on  my  prem- 
ises. 

"No,  sir." 

"Now  tell  me  your  message." 

"It's  about  a — a  boy,  sir,"  stammered  Tilda,  and  felt 
a  horrible  fear  creeping  over  her  now  that  she  ap- 
proached the  crisis.  "That  is,  if  you're  the  Reverend 
Doctor  Glasson." 

"lamDoctor  Glasson.    Well?" 

"It's  about  a  boy,"  harked  back  poor  Tilda.  "He's 
called  Arthur  Miles  Surname  Chandon — an'  he  was 
born  at  a  place  called  Kingsand,  if  that's  any  'elp — an' 
there's  somebody  wants  to  see  'im  most  particular." 

"Come  indoors." 

Doctor  Glasson  said  it  sharply,  at  the  same  time 

29 


TRUE  TILDA 

turning  right  about  and  leading  the  way  towards  the 
house.  Tilda  followed,  while  behind  her  the  excluded 
'Dolph  yapped  and  flung  himself  against  the  gate.  But 
the  gate  was  lined  on  the  inside  with  wire-netting,  and 
the  garden  wall  was  neither  to  be  leapt  nor  scaled. 

In  the  porch  Dr.  Glasson  stood  aside  to  let  the 
servant  precede  them  into  the  house,  looked  after  her 
until  she  vanished  down  the  length  of  a  dark  passage 
that  smelt  potently  of  soapsuds  and  cabbage-water, 
and  motioned  the  child  to  step  within.  She  obeyed, 
while  her  terror  and  the  odours  of  the  house  together 
caught  her  by  the  throat.  But  worse  was  her  dismay 
when,  having  closed  the  front  door,  the  Doctor  bolted 
it  and  slipped  a  chain  on  the  bolt. 

"The  first  door  to  the  left,  if  you  please." 
He  stepped  past  her  and  pushed  it  open,  and  she 
entered,  albeit  with  quaking  knees.  The  room — a 
large  and  high  one — was  furnished  barely  and  like  an 
office — with  a  red  flock  wall-paper,  a  brown  linoleum 
on  the  floor,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  linoleum  a  bulky 
roll-top  desk  and  a  Windsor  chair.  Other  Windsor 
chairs  stood  in  array  against  the  walls,  and  a  couple  of 
rosewood  bookcases  with  glass  fronts.  There  was  also 
by  the  fireplace  an  armchair  covered  with  American 
leather,  a  rag-work  hearthrug,  and  a  large  waste-paper 
basket  stuffed  with  envelopes  and  circulars.  Over  the 
mantelshelf  hung  a  print  in  an  Oxford  frame,  with  the 
title  Suffer  Little  Children  to  Come  unto  Me,  and  a  large 

30 


A  KIDNAPPING 

stain  of  damp  in  the  lower  left-hand  corner.  The  man- 
telshelf itself  supported  a  clock,  a  pair  of  bronze  can- 
dlesticks, a  movable  calendar,  a  bottle  of  paste,  and  a 
wooden  box  with  For  the  Little  Ones  painted  on  it  in 
black  letters. 

All  this  the  child  took  in  almost  at  a  glance,  and  not- 
withstanding that  the  room  was  dark.  Yet  it  had  two 
large  windows,  and  they  were  curtainless.  Its  gloom 
came  of  the  thick  coating  of  dirt  on  their  upper  panes, 
and  a  couple  of  wire  blinds  that  cut  off  all  light 
below. 

Doctor  Glasson  had  walked  straight  to  his  desk,  and 
stood  for  a  few  moments  with  his  back  to  the  child,  fin- 
gering his  papers  and  apparently  engaged  in  thought. 
By-and-by  he  picked  up  a  pair  of  spectacles,  turned, 
and  adjusted  them  slowly  while  he  stared  down  on  her. 

"Where  did  you  get  this  information?" 

Tilda's  first  impulse  was  to  show  him  her  scrap  of 
paper,  but  she  thought  better  of  it.  She  would  keep  it 
back  while  she  could,  as  a  possible  trump  card.  Besides, 
she  feared  and  distrusted  this  man  with  the  little  eyes. 
Seen  through  glasses  they  were  worse  than  ever. 

"He's  wanted  by  some  one  very  particular,"  she 
repeated. 

" By  whom  ?    Speak  up,  child!    Who  sent  you  ? " 

Heaven  knows  to  what  invisible  spirits  the  child 
appealed.  They  were  certainly  disreputable  ones,  as 
will  be  seen;   but  they  heard  her  prayer,  and  came  to 

31 


TRUE  TILDA 

her  now  in  her  extremity.  Hardly  knowing  what  she 
did,  she  opened  on  this  man  a  pair  of  eyes  seraphically 
innocent,  and  asked: 

" W'y,  haven't  you  seen  my  aunt?" 

"Your  aunt?" 

"She  promised  to  call  here  at  twelve-thirty,  an'  I  was 
to  meet  her.  But" — here  Tilda  had  to  keep  a  tight 
hold  on  her  voice — "per'aps  I'm  early?" 

"It's  close  upon  one  o'clock,"  said  Doctor  Glasson, 
with  a  glance  toward  the  mantelshelf.  "What  is  your 
aunt's  name,  and  her  business?" 

"She's  called  Brown — Martha  Brown — Mrs.  Martha 
Brown,  and  she  keeps  a  milliner's  shop  in  the  Edge- 
ware  Road,  London,"  panted  Tilda. 

"I  should  have  asked,  What  is  her  business  with 
me  ? "  Doctor  Glasson  corrected  his  question  severely. 

"I  think — I  dunno — but  I  think,  sir,  she  might  be 
wantin'  to  enter  me  for  a  orphlan.  My  pa,  sir,  was 
knocked  down  an'  killed  by  a  motor-car.  It  was  in  the 
early  days,"  pursued  Tilda,  desperate  now  and  aghast 
at  her  own  invention.  The  lies  seemed  to  spring  to  her 
lips  full  grown.  "  Pa  was  a  stableman,  sir,  at  Buckin'am 
Palace,  and  often  and  often  I've  'eard  'im  tell  mother 
what  'd  be  the  end  of  'im.  He'd  seen  it  in  a  dream. 
And  mother,  she  was  a  stewardess  in  a  Sou'- Western 
boat  that  got  cut  in  two  last  year.  Maybe  you  read  of 
it  in  the  papers?" 

Tears  by  this  time  filled  the  child's  eyes.    She  was 

32 


A  KIDNAPPING 

casting  about  to  invent  a  last  dying  speech  for  her 
mother,  when  Doctor  Glasson  interrupted. 

"If  your  aunt  wishes  to  place  you  here,  it  might  per- 
haps be  managed,  for  a  consideration.  Just  now  we 
have  no  room  for — er — non-paying  children.  But  you 
began  by  asking  for  Arthur  Miles." 

"Surname  Chandon." 

"Yes — quite  so — Chandon."  He  picked  up  a  pencil 
and  a  half-sheet  of  paper  from  the  desk,  and  wrote  the 
name.  "Born  at  Kingsand — I  think  you  said  King- 
sand?  Do  you  happen  to  know  where  Kingsand  is? 
In  what  county,  for  instance?" 

But  Tilda  had  begun  to  scent  danger  again,  she  hardly 
knew  why,  and  contented  herself  with  shaking  her  head. 

"Some  one  wants  to  see  him.    Who?" 

"She's — an  invaUd,"  Tilda  admitted. 

"Not  your  aunt?" 

"She's  a — a  friend  of  my  aunt's." 

Doctor  Glasson  pulled  out  a  watch  and  compared  it 
with  the  clock  on  the  mantelshelf.  While  he  did  so 
Tilda  stole  a  look  up  at  his  face,  and  more  than  ever  it 
seemed  to  her  to  resemble  a  double  trap — its  slit  of  a 
mouth  constructed  to  swallow  anything  that  escaped 
between  nose  and  chin. 

"Your  aunt  is  far  from  punctual.  You  are  sure  she 
means  to  call  ?  " 

"Sure,"  answered  Tilda  still  hardily.  "'Twelve- 
thirty  '  was  her  last  words  when  she  left  me  at  the  Doc- 

33 


TRUE  TILDA 

tor's— my  'ip  bein'  'urt,  sir,  through  tumbhn'  out  of  a 
nomnibus,  three  weeks  ago.  But  you  never  can  depend 
on  'er  to  a  few  minutes  up  an'  down.  She  gets  into  the 
streets,  watchin'  the  fashions,  an'  that  carries  'er  away. 
P'r'aps,  sir,  I'd  better  go  back  into  the  street  and  'ave 
a  look  for  her." 

"I  think  you  had  better  wait  here  for  her,"  said 
Doctor  Glasson,  shutting  his  Ups  with  a  snap.  "There 
are  some  picture-books  in  the  drawing-room." 

He  led  the  way.  The  drawing-room  lay  at  the  back 
of  the  house— an  apartment  even  more  profoundly  de- 
pressing than  the  one  she  had  left.  Its  one  important 
piece  of  furniture  was  a  circular  table  of  rosewood 
standing  in  the  centre  of  the  carpet  under  a  brass 
gasalier,  of  which  the  burnish  had  perished  in  patches; 
and  in  the  centre  of  the  table  stood  a  round-topped 
glass  case  containing  a  stuffed  kestrel,  with  a  stuffed 
lark  prostrate  under  its  talons  and  bleeding  vermilion 
wax.  Around  this  ornament  were  disposed,  as  the 
Doctor  had  promised,  a  number  of  albums  and  illus- 
trated books,  one  of  which  he  chose  and  placed  it  in  her 
hands,  at  the  same  time  bringing  forward  one  of  a  suite 
of  rosewood  chairs  ranged  with  their  backs  to  the  walls. 
He  motioned  her  to  be  seated. 

"You  shall  be  told  as  soon  as  ever  your  aunt  arrives." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Tilda  feebly.     For  the  moment  all 
the  fight  had  gone  out  of  her. 

He  stood  eyeing  her,  pulling  at  his  bony  finger-joints, 

34 


A  KIDNAPPING 

and  seemed  on  the  point  of  putting  some  further  ques- 
tion, but  turned  abruptly  and  left  the  room. 

As  the  door  closed — thank  Heaven,  at  least,  he  did 
not  bolt  this  one  also! — a  dry  sob  escaped  the  child. 
Why  had  she  told  that  string  of  falsehoods  ?  She  was 
trapped  now — imprisoned  in  this  horrible  house,  not  to 
be  released  until  this  fictitious  aunt  arrived,  which,  of 
course,  would  be  never.  The  book  on  her  lap  lay  open 
at  a  coloured  lithograph  of  Mazeppa  bound  upon  his 
steed  and  in  full  flight  across  the  Tartar  steppes.  She 
knew  the  story — was  it  not  Mr.  Maggs's  most  thrilling 
"equestrian  finale,"  and  first  favourite  with  the  public? 
At  another  time  she  would  have  examined  the  pic- 
ture eagerly.  But  now  it  swam  before  her,  un- 
meaning. She  closed  the  book,  threw  a  glance 
around  the  four  corners  of  the  room,  another  at  the 
stuffed  kestrel — whose  pitiless  small  eye  strangely  re- 
sembled Doctor  Glasson's — and  dragged  herself  to  the 
window. 

The  lower  panes  of  the  window  were  filled  with  col- 
oured transparencies  representing  in  series  the  history 
of  the  Prodigal  Son.  They  excluded  a  great  deal  of 
daylight  and  the  whole  of  the  view.  Even  by  standing 
on  tip-toe  she  could  not  look  over  them,  and  she  dared 
not  try  to  raise  the  sash. 

By-and-by  a  thought  struck  her.  She  went  back  to 
her  chair,  lifted  it,  carried  it  to  the  window  and  climbed 
upon  it;   and  this  was  no  small  feat  or  succession  of 

35 


TRUE  TILDA 

feats,  for  as  yet  her  thigh  pained  her,  and  fear  held  her 
half-paralysed. 

What  she  looked  upon  was  an  oblong  space  enclosed 
by  brick  walls  ten  or  twelve  feet  high,  and  divided  by  a 
lower  wall — also  of  brick — into  two  parallelograms  of 
unequal  width.  Of  these  the  wider  was  a  gravelled 
yard,  absolutely  bare,  in  extent  perhaps  an  acre;  and 
here,  in  various  knots  and  groups,  were  gathered  some 
two  dozen  children.  Alongside  of  the  yard  and  upon 
its  left — that  is  to  say,  as  Tilda  guessed,  between  it  and 
the  canal — ran  a  narrower  strip  of  kitchen  garden, 
planted  with  leeks,  cabbages,  potatoes,  and  ending  in 
a  kind  of  shed — part  glasshouse,  part  outhouse — built 
in  lean-to  fashion  against  the  terminal  wall,  which  over- 
topped it  by  several  feet.  The  children  in  the  yard 
could  not  look  into  this  garden,  for  the  dividing  wall 
^reached  far  above  their  heads. 

Tilda,  too,  had  no  eyes  for  the  garden,  after  a  first 
glance  had  assured  her  it  was  empty.  The  children 
engaged  all  her  attention.  She  had  never  spen  any- 
thing like  them;  and  yet  they  were  obviously  boys  and 
girls,  and  in  numbers  pretty  equally  divided.  What  beat 
her  was  that  they  neither  ran  about  nor  played  at  any 
game,  but  walked  to  and  fro — to  and  fro— as  though 
pacing  through  some  form  of  drill;  and  yet  again  they 
could  not  be  drilling,  for  their  motions  were  almost  inert 
and  quite  aimless.  Next,  to  her  surprise,  she  perceived 
that,  on  no  apparent  compulsion,  the  boys  kept  with 

36 


A  KIDNAPPING 

the  boys  in  these  separate  wandering  groups,  and  the 
girls  witii  the  girls;  and  further  that,  when  two  groups 
met  and  passed,  no  greeting,  no  nod  of  recognition,  was 
ever  exchanged.  At  any  rate  she  could  detect  none. 
She  had  heard  tell — indeed,  it  was  an  article  of  faith 
among  the  show-children  with  whom  she  had  been 
brought  up — that  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  well- 
to-do  followed  weird  ways  and  practised  discomfort- 
able  habits — attended  public  worship  on  Sundays,  for 
instance,  walking  two  and  two  in  stiff  raiment.  But 
these  children  were  patently  very  far  from  well-to-do. 
The  garments  of  some  hung  about  them  in  rags  that 
fell  short  even  of  Tilda's  easy  standard.  The  spectacle 
fascinated  her.  For  the  moment  it  chased  fear  out  of 
her  mind.  She  was  only  conscious  of  pity — of  pity 
afflicting  and  indefinable,  far  beyond  her  small  under- 
standing, and  yet  perhaps  not  wholly  unlike  that  by 
which  the  great  poet  was  oppressed  as  he  followed  his 
guide  down  through  the  infernal  circles  and  spoke  with 
their  inhabitants.  The  sight  did  her  this  good — it  drove 
out  for  a  while,  along  with  fear,  all  thought  of  her  pres- 
ent situation.  She  noted  that  the  majority  were  in  twos 
or  threes,  but  that  here  and  there  a  child  walked  soli- 
tary, and  that  the  faces  of  these  solitary  ones  were  hard 
to  discern,  being  bent  toward  the  ground  .  .  . 

The  door-handle  rattled  and  called  her  back  to  ter- 
ror. She  had  no  time  to  clamber  down  from  her  chair. 
She  was  caught. 

37 


</i  c  Vh'*0- 


TRUE  TILDA 

But  it  was  a  woman  who  entered,  the  same  that  had 
opened  the  front  gate;  and  she  carried  a  tray  with  a 
glass  of  water  on  it  and  a  plate  of  biscuits. 

"The  Doctor  told  me  as  'ow  you  might  be  'ungry," 
she  explained. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Tilda.    "I— I  was  lookin'  at  the 


view." 


For  an  instant  she  thought  of  appealing  to  this  stran- 
ger's mercy.  The  woman's  eyes  were  hard,  but  not  un- 
kind.   They  scrutinised  her  closely. 

"You  take  my  advice,  an'  get  out  o'  this,  quick  as 
you  can." 

The  woman  thumped  down  the  tray,  and  made  as  if 
to  leave  the  room  with  a  step  decisive  as  her  speech. 
At  the  door,  however,  she  hesitated. 

"Related  to  'im?"  she  inquired. 

"  Eh  ?  "    Tilda  was  taken  aback.    "  'Go's  'im  ?  " 

"I  'card  you  tell  the  Doctor  you  wanted  to  see  'im." 

"An'  so  I  do.  But  I'm  no  relation  of  'is — on'y  a 
friend." 

"I  was  thinkin'  so.  Lawful  born  or  come-by-chance, 
the  child's  a  little  gendeman,  an'  different  from  the 
others.    Blood  al'ays  comes  out,  don't  it?" 

"I  s'pose  so." 

Tilda,  still  perched  on  her  chair,  glanced  out  at  the 
children  in  the  yard. 

"You  won't  see  'im  out  there.  He's  in  the  shed  at 
the  end  o'  the  kitchen  garden,  cleanin'  the  boots.     If 

38 


A  KIDNAPPING 

you've  got  anything  good  to  tell  'im,  an'  '11  promise  not 
to  be  five  minutes,  I  might  give  you  a  run  there  while 
the  Doctor's  finishin'  his  dinner  in  his  study.  Fact  is," 
added  this  strange  woman,  "the  child  likes  to  be  alone, 
an'  sometimes  I  lets  'im  slip  away  there — when  he's 
good,  or  the  Doctor's  been  extra  'ard  with  'im." 

"Beats  'im?"  asked  Tilda,  and  suddenly,  still  erect 
on  her  chair  and  looking  down  on  the  woman,  felt  her 
courage  flowing  back  full  and  strong.  "He's  a  beast, 
then." 

"You  musn'  talk  like  that,"  said  the  woman  hur- 
riedly, with  a  glance  back  at  the  half-open  door.  "But 
he's  'ard  if  you  cross  'im — an'  the  child's  pay  bein'  be- 
'ind-'and " 

"What's  your  name?"  demanded  Tilda. 

"Sarah  'Uggins." 

"Miss  or  Missis?" 

"What's  that  to  you?" 

The  blood  surged  into  the  woman's  face,  and  she 
eyed  the  child  suspiciously  under  lowered  brows.  Tilda 
slipped  down  from  her  chair.  She  had  a  sense  of  stand- 
ing dangerously  on  the  edge  of  something  evil,  forbidden. 
If  only  she  could  scream  aloud  and  rush  out — anywhere 
— into  the  open  air  ! 

"I — I  was  only  wantin'  to  speak  polite,"  she  stam- 
mered. "I  been  impident  to  yer.  But  O,  Sarah  'Ug- 
gins— O,  ma'am — 'elp  me  see  'im  an'  get  away,  an'  I'll 
bless  yer  name  for  ever  and  ever!    Amen." 

39 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Nip  in  front  o'  me,"  said  the  woman,  "and  be 
quick,  then!  First  turnin'  to  the  right  down  the  stairs, 
an'  don't  clatter  yer  boots." 

Tilda  obeyed  breathlessly,  and  found  herself  in  a 
dark  stone  stairway.  It  led  down  steeply  to  the  base- 
ment, and  here  her  guide  overtook  and  stepped  ahead 
of  her.  They  passed  through  two  dirty  kitchens,  through 
a  wash-house  littered  with  damp  linen  and  filled  with 
steam  from  a  copper  in  the  corner,  and  emerged  upon 
a  well-court  foetid  with  sink-water  and  decaying  scraps 
of  vegetables.  They  had  met  no  one  on  their  way,  and 
it  crossed  Tilda's  mind — but  the  thought  was  incredible 
— that  Sarah  Huggins  served  this  vast  barracks  single- 
handed.  A  flight  of  stone  steps  led  up  from  this  area  to 
the  railed  coping  twenty  feet  aloft,  where  the  sky  shone 
pure  and  fresh. 

"Up  there,  an'  you're  in  the  garden." 

Tilda  ran  so  fast  that  at  the  head  of  the  steps  she 
had  to  clutch  at  the  railing  and  draw  breath. 

The  garden,  too,  was  deserted.  A  gravelled  path, 
scarcely  four  feet  wide,  ran  straight  to  the  end  of  it,  and 
along  this  she  hurried,  not  daring  to  look  back,  but 
aware  that  all  the  back  windows  were  following  her — 
watching  and  following  her — with  horrible  curtainless 
eyes. 

The  garden,  planted  for  utility,  was  passably  well 
kept.  It  contained,  in  all  its  parcelled  length,  not  a 
single  flower.    At  the  very  end  a  few  currant  bushes  par- 

40 


A  KIDNAPPING 

tially  hid  the  front  of  the  shed  and  glasshouse.  They 
were  the  one  scrap  of  cover,  and  when  she  reached  them 
she  had  a  mind  to  crouch  and  hide,  if  only  for  a  mo- 
ment, from  the  staring  windows. 

Her  own  eyes,  as  she  passed  these  bushes,  were 
fastened  on  the  shed.  But  it  seemed  that  some  one  else 
had  discovered  shelter  here;  for  with  a  quick,  half- 
guttural  cry,  like  that  of  a  startled  animal,  a  small  figure 
started  up,  close  by  her  feet,  and  stood  and  edged 
away  from  her  with  an  arm  lifted  as  if  to  ward  off  a 
blow. 

It  was  a  small  boy — a  boy  abominably  ragged  and 
with  smears  of  blacking  thick  on  his  face,  but  for  all  that 
a  good-looking  child.  Tilda  gazed  at  him,  and  he  gazed 
back,  still  without  lowering  his  arm.  He  was  trem- 
bling, too. 

"Doctor  Livingstone,  I  presume?"  said  Tilda,  lift- 
ing the  brim  of  her  chip  hat  and  quoting  from  one  of 
Mr.  Maggs's  most  effective  dramatic  sketches.  But  as 
the  boy  stared,  not  taking  the  allusion,  she  went  on, 
almost  in  the  same  breath,  "Is  your  name  Arthur — 
Arthur  Miles?" 

It  seemed  that  he  did  not  hear.  At  any  rate  he  still 
backed  and  edged  away  from  her,  with  eyes  distended 
— she  had  seen  their  like  in  the  ring,  in  beautiful  terri- 
fied horses,  but  never  in  human  creatures. 

"  — Because,  if  you're  Arthur  Miles,  I  got  a  message 
for  you." 

41 


TRUE  TILDA 

A  tattered  book  lay  on  the  turf  at  her  feet.  She 
picked  it  up  and  held  it  out  to  him.  For  a  while  he 
looked  at  her  eyes  and  from  them  to  the  book,  unable 
to  believe.  Then,  with  a  noise  like  a  sob,  he  sprang  and 
snatched  it,  and  hid  it  with  a  hug  in  the  breast  of  his 
coat. 

" I  got  a  message  for  you,"  repeated  Tilda.  "There's 
some  one  wants  to  see  you,  very  bad." 

"You  go  away!"  said  the  boy  sullenly.  "You  don't 
know.    If  he  catches  you,  there's  no  chance."  i 

Tilda  had  time  in  her  distress  to  be  astonished  by  his 
voice.  It  was  pure,  distinct,  with  the  tone  of  a  sphere 
not  hers.  Yet  she  recognised  it.  She  had  heard  celes- 
tial beings — ladies  and  gentlemen  in  Maggs's  three- 
shilling  seats — talk  in  voices  like  this  boy's. 

"I've  took  a  'eap  o'  trouble  to  find  yer,"  she  said. 
"An'  now  I've  done  it,  all  depends  on  our  gettin'  out 
o' this.    Ain't  there  no  way ?    Do  try  to  think  a  bit!" 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

"There  isn't  any  way.    You  let  me  alone,  and  clear." 

"He  can't  do  worse'n  kill  us,"  said  Tilda  desperately, 
with  a  look  back  at  the  house.    "S'help  me,  let's  try!" 

But  her  spirit  quailed. 

"He  won't  kill  you.  He'll  catch  you,  and  keep  you 
here  for  ever  and  ever." 

"We'll  try,  all  the  same." 

Tilda  shut  her  teeth  and  held  out  her  hand — or 
rather,   was  beginning   to   extend   it — when   a  sound 

42 


A  KIDNAPPING 

arrested  her.  It  came  from  the  door  of  the  glasshouse, 
and  as  she  glanced  toward  it  her  heart  leapt  and 
stood  still. 

'"Dolph!" 

Yes,  it  was  'Dolph,  dirty,  begrimed  with  coal;  'Dolph 
fawning  towal-d  her,  cringing  almost  on  his  belly,  but 
wagging  his  stump  of  a  tail  ecstatically.  Tilda  dashed 
upon  him. 

"Oh,  'I)o\phl— how f" 

The  dog  strangled  down  a  bark,  and  ran  back  to  the 
glasshouse,  but  paused  in  the  doorway  a  moment  to 
make  sure  that  she  was  following.  It  was  all  right. 
Tilda  had  caught  the  boy's  hand,  and  was  dragging 
him  along.  'Dolph  led  them  through  the  glasshouse 
and  down  a  flight  of  four  steps  to  the  broken  door  of  a 
furnace-room.  They  pushed  after  him.  Behind  the 
furnace  a  second  doorway  opened  upon  a  small  coal- 
cellar,  through  the  ceiling  of  which,  in  the  right-hand 
corner,  poured  a  circular  ray  of  light.  The  ray  trav- 
elled down  a  moraine  of  broken  coal,  so  broad  at  the 
base  that  it  covered  the  whole  cellar  floor,  but  narrow- 
ing upward  and  toward  the  manhole  through  which 
the  daylight  shone. 

Down  through  the  manhole,  too — O  bliss! — came 
the  sound  of  a  man's  whistle. 

"Ph'id!  Phee — ee — uht!  Darn  that  fool  of  a  dogl 
Ph'w " 

"For  the  Lord's  sake!"  called  Tilda,  pushing  the 

43 


TRUE  TILDA 

boy  up  the  coal-shute  ahead  of  her  and  panting  pain- 
fully as  her  feet  sank  and  slid  in  the  black  pile. 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Hullo!"  A  man's  face  peered  down, 
shutting  off  the  daylight.  "Well,  in  all  my  bom 
days " 

He  reached  down  a  hand. 

"The  boy  first,"  gasped  Tilda,  "—and  quick!" 


44 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN   WHICH    CHILDE    ARTHUR    LOSES    ONE   MOTHER  AND 

GAINS    ANOTHER 

"  But  and  when  they  came  to  Easter  Gate, 

Easter  Gate  stood  wide; 
'  Y'  are  late,  y'  are  late,'  the  Porter  said; 

'This  morn  my  Lady  died.'" — Old  Ballad. 

"Well,  in  all  my  born  days!"  said  the  young  coal- 
heaver  again,  as  he  landed  the  pair  on  the  canal  bank. 

He  reached  down  a  hand  and  drew  up  'Dolph  by  the 
scruff  of  his  neck.  The  dog  shook  himself  and  stood 
with  his  tail  still  wagging. 

"Shut  down  the  hole,"  Tilda  panted,  and  catching 
sight  of  the  iron  cover,  while  the  young  man  hesitated, 
she  began  to  drag  at  it  with  her  own  hands. 

"Steady  on  there!"  he  interposed.  "I  got  five  hun- 
dred more  to  deliver." 

"You  don't  deliver  another  shovelful  till  we're  out 
o'  this,"  said  Tilda  positively,  stamping  the  cover  in 
place  and  standing  upon  it  for  safety.  "What's  more, 
if  any  one  comes  an'  arsks  a  question  you  ha'n't  seen 
us." 

"  Neither  fur  nor  feather  of  ye,"  said  the  young  man, 
and  grinned. 

45 


TRUE  TILDA 

She  cast  a  look  at  the  boy;  another  up  and  down  the 
towing-path. 

"Got  such  a  thing  as  a  cake  o'  soap  hereabouts? 
You  wouldn',  I  suppose—"  and  here  she  sighed  impa- 
tiently. 

"I  'ave,  though.  Always  keeps  a  bit  in  ray  trouser 
pocket."    He  produced  it  with  pride. 

Said  Tilda,  "I  don't  know  yer  name,  but  you're  raore 
like  a  Garden  Angel  than  any  I've  met  yet  in  your  walk 
o'  life.  Hand  it  over,  an'  keep  a  look-out  while  I  wash 
this  child's  face.  I  can't  take  'im  through  the  streets  in 
this  state."  She  turned  upon  the  boy.  "Here,  you  just 
kneel  down — so — with  your  face  over  the  water,  an'  as 
near  as  you  can  manage."  He  obeyed  in  silence.  He 
was  still  trembling.  "That's  right,  on'y  take  care  you 
don't  overbalance."  She  knelt  beside  him,  dipped  both 
hands  in  the  water,  and  began  to  work  the  soap  into  a 
lather.  "What's  the  'andiest  way  to  the  Good  Samari- 
tan?" she  asked,  speaking  over  her  shoulder. 
"Meanin'  the  'orspital?" 

"Yes."  She  took  the  boy's  passive  face  between  her 
hands  and  soaped  it  briskly.  "The  'andiest  way,  an' 
the  quietest,  for  choice." 

"The  'andiest  way,"  said  the  young  coalheaver,  after 
considering  for  half  a  minute,  "an'  the  quietest,  is  for 
me  to  cast  off  the  bow-straps  here  an'  let  her  drop 
across  stream.  You  can  nip  up  through  the  garden 
yonder— it  don't  belong  to  nobody  just  now.    That  '11 

46 


CHILDE  ARTHUR  LOSES  A  MOTHER 

bring  you  out  into  a  place  called  Pollard's  Row,  an* 
you  turn  straight  off  on  your  right.  First  turnin'  oppo- 
site on  the  right  by  the  '  Royal  Oak,'  which  is  a  public 
'ouse,  second  turnin'  to  the  left  after  that,  an'  you're  in 
Upper  Town  Street,  an'  from  there  to  the  Good  Sam- 
aritan it's  no  more  'n  a  stone's  throw." 

Tilda  was  silent  for  a  few  moments  while  she  fixed 
these  directions  in  her  mind. 

"It  do  seem,"  she  said  graciously  while  she  dried  the 
boy's  face  with  the  skirt  of  her  frock,  "like  as  ii  you'd 
dropped  'ere  from  'eaven.  What  we  should  a-done 
without  you,  I  can't  think." 

"You'd  best  thank  that  dog  o'  your'n."  The  young 
man  bent  to  cast  off  his  rope.  "  He  broke  away  from  me 
once,  an'  I  made  sure  I'd  lost  'im.  But  by-an'-by  back 
he  came  like  a  mad  thing,  an'  no  need  to  tell  me  you  was 
inside  there.  He  was  neither  to  hold  nor  to  bind,  an' 
I  do  believe  if  he  hadn't  thought  o'  the  manhole  he'd 
a-broke  the  wall  down,  or  elst  his  'eart." 

"When  I  tell  you  'e  got  me  in  as  well  as  out —  But, 
good  sake,  I  musn'  stand  'ere  talkin' !  Gimme  my  crutch 
an'  shove  us  across,  that's  a  dear  man." 

She  pushed  the  boy  before  her  on  to  the  barge. 
'Dolph  sprang  on  board  at  their  heels,  and  the  young 
coalheaver  thrust  the  bows  across  with  his  pole.  The 
canal  measured  but  seventeen  or  eighteen  feet  from 
brink  to  brink,  and  consequendy  the  boat,  which  was 
seventy  feet  long  at  least,  fell  across  at  a  long  angle. 

47 


TRUE  TILDA 

The  garden  on  the  opposite  shore  was  unfenced,  or 
rather,  its  rotten  palings  had  collapsed  with  time  and 
the  pressure  of  a  rank  growth  of  elder  bushes. 

"So  long,  an'  th'  Lord  bless  yer!" 

Tilda  took  the  boy's  hand  and  jumped  ashore. 

"Same  to  you,  an'  wishin'  you  luck!"  responded 
the  young  coalheaver  cheerfully.  "Look  'ere,"  he 
added,  "if  you  get  in  trouble  along  o'  this,  I'm  wiUin' 
to  stand  in  for  my  share.  Sam  Bossom's  my  name — 
employ  of  Hucks,  Canal  End  Basin.  If  they  lag  you 
for  this,  you  just  refer  'em  to  Sam  Bossom,  employ  of 
Hucks — every  one  knows  Hucks;  an'  I'll  tell  'em — 
well,  darned  if  I  know  what  I'll  tell  'em,  unless  that  we 
was  all   under  the  ifluence  o'  dr  nk." 

"You're  a  white  man,"  responded  Tilda,  "though 
you  don't  look  it;  but  there  ain't  goin'  to  be  no  trouble, 
not  if  I  can  'elp.  If  any  one  arsks  questions,  you  han  't 
seen  us,  mind." 

"Fur  nor  feather  of  ye,"  he  repeated. 

He  watched  the  pair  as  they  dived  through  the 
elder  bushes;  saw  them,  still  hand  in  hand,  take  the 
path  on  the  left  side  of  the  garden,  where  its  party 
hedge  could  best  screen  them  from  the  back  windows  of 
the  Orphanage;  and  poled  back  meditatively. 

"Got  an  'ead  on  her  shoulders,  that  child!" 

On  their  way  up  the  garden  Tilda  kept  silence.  She 
was  busy,  in  fact,  with  Sam  Bossom's  complicated  itin- 
erary, repeating  it  over  and  over  to  fix  it  in  her  mind. 

48 


CHILDE  ARTHUR  LOSES  A  MOTHER 

She  was  fearful,  too,  lest  some  inquisitive  neighbour, 
catching  sight  of  them,  might  stop  them  and  challenge 
to  know  their  business.  The  streets  once  gained,  she 
felt  easier — easier  indeed  with  every  yard  put  between 
her  and  that  house  of  horrors.  But  the  streets,  too, 
held  their  dangers.  The  bells  had  rung  in  the  elemen- 
tary schools;  all  respectable  boys  and  girls  were  in- 
doors, deep  in  the  afternoon  session,  and  she  had  heard 
of  attendance  officers,   those  prowling  foes. 

At  the  end  of  Pollard's  Row — a  squalid  street  of 
tenement  houses — she  suffered  indeed  a  terrible  scare. 
A  benevolent-looking  middle-aged  lady — a  district 
visitor,  in  fact — emerging  from  one  of  these  houses  and 
arrested,  perhaps,  at  sight  of  the  crutch  or  of  the  boy's 
strange  rags,  stopped  her  and  asked  where  she  was  going. 

Tilda  fell  back  on  the  truth.    It  was  economical. 

"To  the  'orspital,"  she  answered,  "the  Good  Sa- 
maritan." 

Then  she  blundered. 

"It's  'ereabouts,  ain't  it,  ma'am?" 

"Not  very  far,"  replied  the  lady;  "two  or  three 
streets  only.  Shall  I  show  you  the  way?  I  have  plenty 
of  time." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Tilda  (she  was  suffering  a  reac- 
tion, and  for  a  moment  it  dulled  the  edge  of  her  wits), 
"but  I  know  the  Good  Samaritan,  an'  they  know  all 
about  me." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

49 


TRUE  TILDA 

"'Ip  trouble,  ma'am.  I  been  treated  for  it  there 
these  three  weeks." 

"That  is  strange,"  said  the  lady.  "You  have  been 
going  there  for  three  weeks,  and  yet  you  don't  know 
your  way?" 

"I  been  a  in-patient.  I  was  took  there" — she  was 
about  to  say  "on  a  stretcher,"  but  checked  herself  in 
time — "I  was  took  there  in  the  evenin'  after  dark. 
Father  couldn'  take  me  by  day,  in  his  work  time.  An' 
this  is  my  first  turn  as  day-patient,  an'  that's  why  my 
brother  'ere  is  let  off  school  to  see  me  along,"  she 
wound  up  with  a  desperate  rush  of  invention, 

"  You  don't  live  in  my  district  ?  What's  your  father's 
name?" 

"No,  ma'am.  He's  called  Porter— Sam  Porter,  an' 
he  works  on  the  coal-barges.  But  I  wouldn'  advise 
you,  I  reely  wouldn',  because  father's  got  opinions,  an' 
can't  abide  visitors.  I've  'card  'im  threaten  'em  quite 
vi'lent." 

"Poor  child!" 

"But  I  won't  'ave  you  say  anything  'gainst  father," 
said  Tilda,  taking  her  up  quickly,  "for  'e's  the  best 
father  in  the  world,  if  'twasn'  for  the  drink." 

The  effect  of  this  masterstroke  was  that  the  lady  gave 
her  a  copper  and  let  her  go,  wishing  her  a  speedy  recov- 
ery. The  gift,  although  she  took  it,  did  not  appear  to 
placate  Tilda.  She  hobbled  up  the  next  street  with 
quickened  pace,  now  and  then  muttering  angrily. 

50 


CHILDE  ARTHUR  LOSES  A  MOTHER 

"Serves  me  right!"  she  broke  out  at  length.  "Bill — 
you  don't  know  Bill,  but  'e's  the  wisest  man  in  the 
'ole  world,  an'  the  kindest,  an'  the  bestest.  Bill  would 
'a-slapped  my  ear  if  'e'd  'eard  me  jus'  now.  Near  upon 
gave  the  show  away,  I  did,  an'  all  through  wantin'  to 
'ear  somebody  else  tell  what  I  knew  a'ready.  Never 
let  nobody  else  make  sure  for  you — that's  one  o'  Bill's 
sayin's.  Take  warnin'  by  me,  an'  don't  you  ever  forget 
it,  Arthur  Miles." 

The  boy  had  not  spoken  all  the  way.  He  glanced  at 
her  timidly,  and  she  saw  that  he  did  not  understand. 
Also  it  was  plain  that  the  streets,  with  their  traffic,  puz- 
zled him ;  at  the  approach  of  every  passer-by  he  would 
halt  uncertainly,  like  a  puppy  not  yet  waywise.  By- 
and-by  he  said : 

"But  if  that's  so,  you  must  be  my  sister." 

"I'm  not,"  said  Tilda  sharply.  "What  put  it  into 
your  'ead?" 

"You  told  the  lady — "  he  began. 

"Eh?  So  I  did.  But  that  was  all  flam."  He  could 
make  nothing  of  this.  "I  was  kiddin'  of  'er — tellin' 
what  wasn'  true,"  she  explained. 

He  walked  forward  a  few  steps  with  a  frown — not 
disapproving,  but  painfully  thinking  this  out. 

"And  about  the  Hospital — wasn't  that  true  either?" 

"Yes,"  Tilda  nodded.  "We're  goin'  to  the  'orspital 
all  right.  That's  why  I  came  to  fetch  yer.  There's 
some  one  wants  to  see  yer,  ever  so  bad." 

51 


TRUE  TILDA 

"I  know  about  the  Good  Samaritan,"  announced  the 
boy. 

Tilda  stared. 

"I  bet  yer  don't,"  she  contradicted. 

"  He  found  a  man,  a  traveller,  that  some  thieves  had 
hurt  and  left  by  the  road.  Going  down  to  Jericho  it 
was;  and  he  poured  oil  and  wine  into  his  wounds." 

"  Oh,  cheese  it! "  said  Tilda.  "  'Go's  a-kiddin'  now  ? 
An'  see  'ere,  Arthur  Miles — it  don't  matter  with  me, 
a  he  up  or  down;  I'm  on'y  Tilda.  But  don't  you  pick 
up  the  'abit,  or  else  you'll  annoy  me.  I  can't  tell  why 
ezactly,  but  it  don't  sit  on  you." 

"Tilda?"  The  boy  caught  up  her  name  like  an 
echo.    "Tilda  what?" 

"  The  Lord  knows.  Tilda  no^^im'— Tilda  o'  Maggs's, 
if  you  like,  an'  nobody's  child,  anyway." 

"But  that  isn't  possible,"  he  said,  after  thinking  a 
moment.  "They  called  me  that  sometimes,  back — 
back " 

"At  the  Orph'nige,  eh?  'Oo  called  you  that?  The 
Doctor?  No,"  said  Tilda  hurriedly,  as  he  halted  with 
a  shiver,  "don't  look  be'ind;  'e's  not  anywhere  near. 
An'  as  for  the  Good  Samaritan,  you're  wrong  about 
that,  too;  for  'ere's  the  Good  Samaritan!" 

She  pointed  at  the  building,  and  he  stared.  He  could 
not  comprehend  at  all,  but  she  had  switched  him  off 
the  current  of  his  deadly  fear. 

"Now  you  just  wait  'ere  by  the  steps,"  she  com- 

52 


CHILDE  ARTHUR  LOSES  A  MOTHER 

manded,  "an'  'Dolph  '11  wait  by  you  an'  see  you  come 
to  no  'arm.  Understand,  'Dolph  ?  I'm  goin'  inside  for 
a  minute — only  a  minute,  mind;  but  if  anybody  touches 
Arthur  Miles,  you  pin  'im ! " 

'Dolph  looked  up  at  his  mistress,  then  at  the  boy. 
He  wagged  his  tail,  not  enthusiastically.  He  would 
fain  have  followed  her,  but  he  understood,  and  would 
obey. 

Tilda  went  up  the  steps,  and  up  the  stairs.  On  the 
landing,  as  chance  would  have  it,  she  met  the  Second 
Nurse  coming  out  from  the  ward,  with  a  sheet  in  one 
hand  and  a  tray  of  medicines  in  the  other. 

"You  extremely  naughty  child!"  began  the  Second 
Nurse,  but  not  in  the  shrill  tone  nor  with  quite  the 
stern  disapproval  the  child  had  expected.  "When  the 
doctor  told  you  half  an  hour  exactly,  and  you  have 
been  hours !    What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"Lookin'  up  the  old  folks,"  she  answered,  and  took 
note  first  that  the  medicine  bottles  were  those  that  had 
stood  on  the  sick  woman's  table,  and  next  that  the 
Second  Nurse,  as  she  came  out,  transferred  the  sheet 
to  her  arm  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"You  must  wait  here  for  a  moment,  now  you  have 
come  so  late.  I  have  had  to  give  you  another  bed ;  and 
now  I've  to  fetch  some  hot  water,  but  I'll  be  back  in  a 
minute." 

"Folks  don't  make  beds  up  with  hot  water,"  thought 
Tilda. 

.      53 


TRUE  TILDA 

She  watched  the  nurse  down  the  passage,  stepped  to 
the  door,  and  turned  the  handle  softly. 

There  was  no  change  in  the  ward  except  that  a  tall 
screen  stood  by  the  sick  woman's  bed.  Tilda  crept  to 
the  screen  on  tip-toe,  and  peered  around  it. 

Ten  seconds — twenty  seconds — passed,  and  then  she 
drew  back  and  stole  out  to  the  landing,  closing  the  door 
as  softly  as  she  had  opened  it.  In  the  light  of  the  great 
staircase  window  her  face  was  pale  and  serious. 

She  went  down  the  stairs  slowly. 

"Seems  I  made  a  mistake,"  she  said,  speaking  as 
carelessly  as  she  could,  but  avoiding  the  boy's  eyes. 
"You  wasn'  wanted  up  there,  after  all." 

But  he  gazed  at  her,  and  flung  out  both  arms  with 
a  strangling  sob. 

"You  won't  take  me  back!  You'll  hide  me — you 
won't  take  me  back ! " 

"Oh,  'ush!"  said  Tilda.  "No,  I  won't  take  yer 
back,  an'  I'll  do  my  best,  but— oh,  'Dolph!"— she 
brushed  the  back  of  her  hand  across  her  eyes  and 
turned  to  the  dog  with  the  bravest  smile  she  could  con- 
trive— "to  think  of  me  bein'  a  mother,  at  my  timeo' 
hfe!" 


54 


CHAPTER  V 

TEMPORARY   EMBARRASSMENTS   OF   A  THESPIAN 

"Sinner  that  I  am,"  said  the  Showman,  "see  how  you  are 
destroying  and  ruining  my  whole  livelihood ! " 

— Don  Quixote. 

Mr.  Sam  Bossam,  having  poled  back  to  the  towpath, 
stepped  ashore,  made  fast  his  bow  moorings,  stood 
and  watched  the  two  childish  figures  as  they  passed 
up  the  last  slope  of  the  garden  out  of  sight,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  deliver  his  remaining  hundredweights  of 
coal — first,  however,  peering  down  the  manhole  and 
listening,  to  assure  himself  that  all  was  quiet  below. 

"If,"  said  he,  thoughtfully,  "a  man  was  to  come  an' 
tell  me  a  story  like  that,  I'd  call  'im  a  liar." 

Twice  or  thrice  before  finishing  his  job  he  paused  to 
hsten  again,  but  heard  nothing.  Still  in  musing  mood, 
he  scraped  up  the  loose  coal  that  lay  around  the  man- 
hole, shovelled  it  in,  refixed  the  cover,  and  tossed  his 
shovel  on  board.  His  next  business  was  to  fetch  a 
horse  from  the  stables  at  the  Canal  End  and  tow  the 
boat  back  to  her  quarters;  and,  having  taken  another 
glance  around,  he  set  off  and  up  the  towpath  at  a  pretty 
brisk  pace.    It  would  be  five  o'clock  before  he  finished 

55 


TRUE  TILDA 

his  work:  at  six  he  had  an  engagement,  and  it  would 
take  him  some  time  to  wash  and  titivate. 

Canal  End  Basin  lay  hard  upon  three-quarters  of 
a  mile  up-stream,  and  about  half  that  distance  beyond 
the  bend  of  the  Great  Brewery — a  malodorous  pool 
packed  with  narrow  barges  or  monkey-boats — a  few 
loading  leisurely,  the  rest  moored  in  tiers  awaiting 
their  cargoes.  They  belonged  to  many  owners,  but 
their  type  was  wellnigh  uniform.  Each  measured 
seventy  feet  in  length,  or  a  trifle  over,  with  a  beam  of 
about  seven;  each  was  built  with  rounded  bilges,  and 
would  carry  from  twenty-five  to  thirty  tons  of  cargo; 
each  provided,  aft  of  its  hold  or  cargo-well,  a  small 
cabin  for  the  accommodation  of  its  crew  by  day;  and 
for  five-sixths  of  its  length  each  was  black  as  a  gondola 
of  Venice.  Only,  where  the  business  part  of  the  boat 
ended  and  its  cabin  began,  a  painted  ribbon  of  curious 
pattern  ornamented  the  gunwale,  and  terminated  in 
two  pictured  stem-panels. 

Wharves  and  storehouses  surrounded  the  basin,  or 
rather  enclosed  three  sides  of  it,  and  looked  upon  the 
water  across  a  dead  avenue  (so  to  speak)  of  cranes  and 
bollards;  buildings  of  exceedingly  various  height  and 
construction,  some  tiled,  others  roofed  with  galvanised 
iron.  Almost  every  one  proclaimed  on  its  front,  for  the 
information  of  the  stranger,  its  owner's  name  and  what 
he  traded  in;  and  the  stranger,  while  making  his  choice 
between  these  announcements,  had  ample  time  to  con- 

56 


EMBARRASSMENTS  OF  A  THESPIAN 

trast  their  diversity  of  size  and  style  with  the  sober  uni- 
formity that  prevailed  afloat. 

The  store  and  yard  of  Mr.  Christopher  Hucks  stood 
at  the  head  of  the  basin,  within  a  stone's-throw  of  the 
Weigh  Dock,  and  but  two  doors  away  from  the  Canal 
Company's  office.  It  was  approached  through  folding- 
doors,  in  one  of  which  a  smaller  opening  had  been  cut 
for  pedestrians,  and  through  this,  on  his  way  to  the 
stables  in  the  rear,  Mr.  Sam  Bossom  entered.  He  en- 
tered and  halted,  rubbing  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  which,  grimed  as  it  was  with  coal  grit,  but  further 
inflamed  their  red  rims.  In  the  centre  of  the  yard, 
which  had  been  empty  when  he  went  to  work,  stood 
a  large  yellow  caravan ;  and  on  the  steps  of  the  caravan 
sat  a  man — a  stranger — peeling  potatoes  over  a  bucket. 

"Hullo!"  said  Sam. 

The  stranger — a  long-faced  man  with  a  dead  com- 
plexion, an  abundance  of  dark  hair,  and  a  blue  chin — 
nodded  gloomily. 

"The  surprise,"  he  answered,  "is  mutual.  If  it 
comes  to  that,  young  man,  you  are  not  looking  your 
best  either;  though  doubtless,  if  washed  off,  it  would 
reveal  a  countenance  not  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale 
cast  of  thought — thought  such  as,  alas!  must  be  mine 
— thought  which,  if  acquainted  with  the  poets,  you 
will  recognise  as  lying  too  deep  for  tears." 

"Governor  settin'  up  in  a  new  line?"  asked  Sam, 
slowly  contemplating  the  caravan  and  a  large  tarpaulin- 

57 


TRUE  TILDA 

covered  waggon  that  stood  beside  it  with  shafts  resting 
on  the  ground. 

"If,  my  friend,  you  allude  to  Mr.  Christopher 
Hucks,  he  is  not  setting  up  in  any  new  line,  but  pursu- 
ing a  fell  career  on  principles  which  (I  am  credibly  in- 
formed) are  habitual  to  him,  and  for  which  I  can  only 
hope  he  will  be  sorry  when  he  is  dead.  The  food,  sir, 
of  Mr.  Christopher  Hucks  is  still  the  bread  of  destitu- 
tion; his  drink,  the  tears  of  widows;  and  the  groans  of 
the  temporarily  embarrassed  supply  the  music  of  his 
unhallowed  feast." 

"There  is  a  bit  o'  that  about  the  old  man,  until  you 
get  to  know  him,"  assented  Sam  cheerfully. 

"Mr.  Christopher  Hucks — "  began  the  stranger 
with  slow  emphasis,  dropping  a  peeled  potato  into  the 
bucket  and  lifting  a  hand  with  an  open  clasp-knife 
toward  heaven. 

But  here  a  voice  from  within  the  caravan  interrupted 
him. 

"Stanislas!" 

"My  love?" 

"I  can't  find  the  saucepan." 

A  lady  appeared  at  the  hatch  of  the  doorway  above. 
Her  hair  hung  in  disarray  over  her  well-developed 
shoulders,  and  recent  tears  had  left  their  furrows  on 
a  painted  but  not  uncomely  face. 

"I — I — well,  to  confess  the  truth,  I  pawned  it,  my 
bud.    Dear,  every  cloud  has  its  silver  lining,  and  mean- 

58 


EMBARRASSMENTS  OF  A  THESPIAN 

while  what  shall  we  say  to  a  simple  fry  ?  You  have  an 
incomparable  knack  of  frying." 

"But  where's  the  dripping?" 

Her  husband  groaned. 

"The  dripping!  The  continual  dripping!  Am  I — 
forgive  the  bitterness  of  the  question — but  am  I  a 
stone,  love?" 

He  asked  it  with  a  hollow  laugh,  and  at  the  same 
time  with  a  glance  challenged  Sam's  approval  for  his 
desperate  pleasantry. 

Sam  jerked  his  thumb  to  indicate  a  wooden  out- 
house on  the  far  side  of  the  yard. 

"I  got  a  shanty  of  my  own  across  there,  and  a  few 
fixin's.  If  the  van's  anchored  here,  an'  I  can  set  you 
up  with  odds-an'-ends  such  as  a  saucepan,  you're 
welcome." 

"A  friend  in  need,  sir,  is  a  friend  indeed,"  said  the 
stranger  impressively;  and  Sam's  face  brightened,  for 
he  had  heard  the  proverb  before,  and  it  promised  to 
bring  the  conversation,  which  he  had  found  some  diffi- 
culty in  following,  down  to  safe,  familiar  ground. 
"Allow  me  to  introduce  you — but  excuse  me,  I  have 
not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  your  name " 

"Sam  Bossom." 

"Delighted!  'Bossom'  did  you  say?  B— O — 
double  S — it  should  have  been  'Blossom,'  sir,  with  a 
slight  addition;  or,  with  an  equally  slight  omission — 
er — 'Bosom,'  if  my  Arabella  will  excuse  me.      On  two 

59 


TRUE  TILDA 

hands,  Mr.  Bossom,  you  narrowly  escape  poetry.*' 
(Sam  looked  about  him  uneasily.)  "But,  as  Browning 
says,  'The  little  more  and  how  much  it  is,  the  little  less 
and  what  miles  away,'  Mine  is  Mortimer,  sir — Stanis- 
las Horatio  Mortimer.  You  have  doubtless  heard  of 
it?" 

"Can't  say  as  I  'ave,"  Sam  confessed. 

"Is  it  possible?"  Mr.  Mortimer  was  plainly  sur 
prised,  not  to  say  hurt.  He  knit  his  brows,  and  for  a 
moment  seemed  to  be  pondering  darkly.  "You  hear 
it,  Arabella?  But  no  matter.  As  I  was  saying,  sir,  I 
desire  the  pleasure  of  introducing  you  to  my  wife,  Mrs. 
Mortimer,  better  known  to  fame,  perhaps,  as  Miss 
Arabella  St.  Maur.  You  see  her,  Mr.  Bossom,  as  my 
helpmeet  under  circumstances  which  (though  tempo- 
rarily unfavourable)  call  forth  the  true  woman — naked, 
in  a  figurative  sense,  and  unadorned.  But  her  Ophelia, 
sir,  has  been  favourably,  nay  enthusiastically,  approved 
by  some  of  the  best  critics  of  our  day." 

This  again  left  Sam  gravelled.  He  had  a  vague  no- 
tion that  the  lady's  Ophelia  must  be  some  admired  part 
of  her  anatomy,  but  contented  himself  with  touching 
his  brow  politely  and  muttering  that  he  was  Mrs.  Mor- 
timer's to  command.  The  lady,  who  appeared  to  be 
what  Sam  called  to  himself  a  good  sort,  smiled  down  on 
him  graciously,  and  hoped  that  she  and  her  husband 
might  be  favoured  with  his  company  at  supper. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  ma'am,"  responded  Sam; 

60 


EMBARRASSMENTS  OF  A  THESPIAN 

"but,  fact  is,  I  han't  knocked  off  work  yet.  Must  go 
now  and  fetch  out  th'  old  hoss  for  a  trifle  of  haulage; 
an'  when  I  get  back  I  must  clean  meself  an'  shift  for 
night-school — me  bein'  due  early  there  to  fetch  up  lee- 
way. You  see,"  he  explained,  "bein'  on  the  move  wi' 
the  boats  most  o'  my  time,  I  don't  get  the  same  chances 
as  the  other  fellows.  So  when  I  hauls  ashore,  as  we  call 
it,  I  'ave  to  make  up  lost  time." 

"A  student,  I  declare!"  Mr.  Mortimer  saluted  him. 
Rising  from  the  steps  of  the  caravan,  he  rubbed  a  hand 
down  his  trouser-leg  and  extended  it.  "Permit  me  to 
grasp,  sir,  the  horny  palm  of  self-improvement.  A 
scholar  in  humble  life!  and — as  your  delicacy  in  this 
small  matter  of  the  saucepan  sufficiently  attests — one 
of  Nature's  gendemen  to  boot!  I  prophesy  that  you 
will  go  far,  Mr.  Bossom.  May  I  inquire  what  books 
you  thumb?" 

"Thumb?"  Sam,  his  hard  hand  released,  stared  at 
it  a  moment  perplexed.  "That  ain't  the  method,  sir; 
not  at  our  school.  But  I'm  gettin'  along,  and  the  book 
is  called  Lord  Macaulay." 

"  What  ?    Macaulay's  Essaijs  f  " 

"It's  called  Lays,  sir — Lord  Macaulay's  Lays.  The 
rest  of  the  class  chose  it,  an'  I  didn'  like  to  cry  off, 
though  I'd  not  a-flown  so  high  as  a  lord  myself — not  to 
start  with." 

"The  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome?  My  dear  Bossom — 
my  dear  Smiles — you'll  allow  me  to  dub  you  Smiles? 

61 


TRUE  TILDA 

On  Self  Help,  you  know.    I  like  to  call  my  friends  by 

these  playful  sobriquets,  and  friends  we  are  going  to  be, 

you  and  I.     My  dear  fellow,  I  used  to  know  'em  by 

heart: 

'Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 
By  the  nine  gods  he  swore — * 

— Is  that  the  ticket,  hey  ?" 

Mr.  Mortimer  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Dang  it!"  breathed  Sam,  "how  small  the  world  is!" 

"Smiles,  we  must  be  friends.  Even  if,  for  a  paltry 
trifle  of  seven  pounds  fifteen  and  six,  I  am  condemned 
by  your  master  (whom  you  will  excuse  my  terming  a 
miscreant)  to  eke  out  the  dregs  of  my  worthless  existence 
in  this  infernal  yard — no,  my  loved  Arabella,  you  will 
pardon  me,  but  as  a  practical  man  I  insist  on  facing  the 
worst — even  so  I  have  found  a  congenial  spirit,  a  co- 
mate  and  brother  in  exile,  a  Friend  in  my  retreat  Whom 
I  can  whisper:  'Solitude  is  sweet.'  Pursue,  my  dear 
Smiles!  You  are  young:  hope  sits  on  your  helm  and 
irradiates  it.  For  me,  my  bark  is  stranded,  my  fortunes 
shipwrecked,  my  career  trickles  out  in  the  sands.  Nev- 
ertheless, take  the  advice  of  an  Elder  Brother,  and  pur- 
sue. By  the  way" — Mr.  Mortimer  drew  from  his 
breast-pocket  the  stump  of  a  half-consumed  cigar — "  I 
regret  that  I  have  not  its  fellow  to  offer  you;  but  could 
you  oblige  me  with  a  match  ?" 

Sam  produced  a  couple  of  sulphur  matches. 

"I   thank  you."     Mr.    Mortimer  lit  and   inhaled. 

62 


EMBARRASSMENTS  OF  A  THESPIAN 

"A — ah!"  he  sighed  between  two  luxurious  puffs. 
"Connoisseurs — epicures — tell  me  a  cigar  should  never 
be  lit  twice.  But  with  tobacco  of  this  quality — the  last 
of  the  box,  alas!  All  its  blooming  companions — and, 
between  you  and  me,  smuggled."  He  winked  know- 
ingly. 

Just  then  a  hooter  from  the  Great  Brewery  an- 
nounced five  o'clock.  Sam  groaned.  He  had  engaged 
himself  to  the  schoolmaster  for  an  hour's  private  tui- 
tion before  the  Evening  Class  opened,  and  Mr.  Morti- 
mer's fascinating  talk  had  destroyed  his  last  chance  of 
keeping  that  engagement.  Even  if  he  dropped  work 
straight  away,  it  would  take  him  a  good  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  to  clean  himself  and  don  his  best  suit. 

He  was  explaining  this  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mortimer 
when,  his  eyes  resting  on  the  empty  shafts  of  the  waggon, 
a  happy  thought  occurred  to  him. 

"O'  course,"  he  began,  " — but  there,  I  don't  Hke  to 
suggest  it,  sir." 

"Say  on,  my  friend." 

"Well — I  was  thinkin'  that  you,  maybe,  bein' 
accustomed  to  bosses " 

"My  father,"  put  in  Mr.  Mortimer,  "rode  to  hounds 
habitually.  A  beau-ideal,  if  I  may  say  so,  of  the  Old 
English  squire.    It  is  in  the  blood." 

"I  know  it's  a  come-down,"  Sam  owned.  "And 
a  shilling  at  most  for  overtime — meanin'  no  offence ' 

Mr.  Mortimer  waved  a  hand. 

63 


TRUE  TILDA 

"If,"  said  he,  "it  be  a  question  of  my  rendering  you 
any  small  service,  I  beg,  my  friend — I  command — that 
all  question  of  pecuniary  recompense  be  left  out  of  the 
discussion." 

Sam,  feeling  that  he  had  to  deal  with  a  noble  char- 
acter, explained  that  the  job  was  an  easy  one;  merely 
to  lead  or  ride  one  of  the  horses  down  the  hauling-path 
to  where  the  boat  lay,  to  hitch  on  the  tackle,  cast  off 
straps,  pull  up  and  ship  the  two  crowbars  to  which  they 
were  made  fast,  and  so  take  the  tiller  and  steer  home. 
The  horse  knew  his  business,  and  would  do  the  rest. 

"And  you  can't  mistake  the  boat.  Duchess  of  Teck 
is  her  name,  an'  she  lies  about  three  ropes'  lengths  this 
side  of  the  iron  bridge,  just  as  you  come  abreast  o'  the 
brick  wall  that  belongs  to  the  Orph'nage." 

"  Bring  forth  the  steed,"  commanded  Mr.  Mortimer. 
"Nay,  I  will  accompany  you  to  the  stables  and  fetch 
him." 

"And  the  saucepan!  Don't  forget  the  saucepan!'* 
Mrs.  Mortimer  called  after  them  in  a  sprightly  voice 
as  they  crossed  the  yard  together. 

"Ha,  the  saucepan!"  Within  the  stable  doorway 
Mr.  Mortimer  stood  still  and  pressed  a  hand  to  his 
brow.  "You  cannot  think,  my  dear  Smiles,  how  that 
obligation  weighs  on  me.  The  expense  of  a  saucepan 
— what  is  it?  And  yet — "  He  seemed  to  ponder.  Of 
a  sudden  his  brow  cleared.     " — Unless,  to  be  sure — 

64 


EMBARRASSMENTS  OF  A  THESPIAN 

that  is  to  say,  if  you  should  happen  to  have  a  shilHng 
about  you?" 

"I  got  no  change  but  'arf-a-crown,  if  that's  any  use," 
answered  the  charmed  Sam. 

"Nothing  smaller?  Still,"  suggested  Mr.  Mortimer 
quickly,  "I  could  bring  back  the  change." 

"Yes,  do." 

"It  will  please  Arabella,  too.  In  point  of  fact,  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  our  married  life,  I  have  made  it  a  rule 
never  to  absent  myself  from  her  side  without  bringing 
back  some  trifling  gift.  Women — as  you  will  under- 
stand one  of  these  days — set  a  value  on  these  j)etits 
soins;  and  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  iron 
bridge  a  tinsmith's  should  not  be  hard  to  find.  .  .  . 
Ah,  thanks,  my  dear  fellow — thanks  inexpressibly! 
Absurd  of  me,  of  course;  but  you  cannot  think  what  a 
load  you  have  taken  off  my  mind." 

Sam  unhitched  one  of  a  number  of  hauling  tackles 
hanging  against  the  wall,  and  led  forth  his  horse — a 
sturdy  old  gray,  by  name  Jubilee.  Casting  the  tackle 
carelessly  on  the  animal's  back,  he  handed  Mr.  Morti- 
mer the  headstall  rope,  and  left  him,  to  return  two  min- 
utes later  with  the  saucepan  he  had  promised. 

"She  must  use  this  one  for  the  time,"  he  explained. 
"And  afterward  yours  will  come  as  a  surprise." 

"It  must  be  so,  I  suppose,"  assented  Mr.  Mortimer, 
but  after  a  pause,  and  reluctantly,  averting  his  eyes 
from  the  accursed  thing. 

65 


TRUE  TILDA 

To  spare  him,  Sam  hurried  across  to  dehver  it  to  the 
lady,  who  awaited  them  in  the  doorway:  and  thus  ap- 
proaching he  became  aware  that  she  was  making  mys- 
terious signals.  He  glanced  behind  him.  Plainly  the 
signals  were  not  directed  at  her  husband,  who  had 
halted  to  stoop  and  pass  a  hand  over  old  Jubilee's  near 
hind  pastern,  and  in  a  manner  almost  more  than  pro- 
fessional. Sam  advanced,  in  some  wonder.  Mrs.  Mor- 
timer reached  down  a  shapely  hand  for  the  pan-handle, 
leaned  as  she  did  so,  and  murmured : 

"You  will  not  lend  money  to  Stanislas?  He  is  apt, 
when  the  world  goes  ill  with  him,  to  seek  distraction,  to 
behave  unconventionally.  It  is  not  a  question  of  drown- 
ing his  cares,  for  the  least  little  drop  acting  upon  his 
artistic  temperament " 

But  at  this  moment  her  husband,  having  concluded 
his  inspection  of  the  gray,  called  out  to  be  given  a  leg-up, 
and  Sam  hurried  back  to  oblige. 

"Thank  you.  Time  was.  Smiles,  when  with  hand 
laid  lightly  on  the  crupper,  I  could  have  vaulted." 

Overcome  by  these  reminiscences,  Mr.  Mortimer 
let  his  chin  sink,  his  legs  dangle,  and  rode  forward  a 
pace  or  two  in  the  classical  attitude  of  the  Last  Sur- 
vivor from  Cabul;  but  anon  looked  up  with  set  jaw 
and  resolution  in  his  eye,  took  a  grip  with  his  knees, 
and  challenged: 

"Give  a  man  a  horse  he  can  ride, 
Give  a  man  a  boat  he  can  sail, 

66 


EMBARRASSMENTS  OF  A  THESPIAN 

And  his  something  or  other — I  forget 
the  exact  expression — 
On  sea  nor  shore  shall  fail!" 

— "Fling  wide  the  gate,  Smiles!"  He  was  now  the 
Dashing  Cavalier,  life-sized.  "Take  care  of  yourself, 
poppet!" 

He  gave  his  bridle-rein  a  shake  (so  to  speak),  turn- 
ed, blew  a  kiss  to  his  spouse,  dug  heel  and  jogged 
forth  chanting: 

"  Tirra  tirra  by  the  river 
Sang  Sir  Lancelot!" 


67 


CHAPTER  VI 

MR.  Mortimer's  adventure 

"Old  mole!  canst  work  i'  the  earth  so  fast?" — Hamlet. 

All  the  way  along  the  canal  bank  Mr.  Mortimer 
continued  to  carol.  Mercurial  man!  Like  all  actors 
he  loved  applause,  but  unlike  the  most  of  them  he  was 
capable  of  supplying  it  when  the  public  failed ;  and  this 
knack  of  being  his  own  best  audience  had  lifted  him, 
before  now,  out  of  quite  a  number  of  Sloughs  of  De- 
spond and  carried  him  forward  singing. 

He  had  left  care  behind  him  in  Mr.  Hucks's  yard, 
and  so  much  of  noble  melancholy  as  he  kept  (for  the 
sake  of  artistic  effect)  took  a  tincture  from  the  sunset 
bronzing  the  smoke-laden  sky  and  gilding  the  unlovely 
waterway.  Like  the  sunset,  Mr.  Mortimer's  mood  was 
serene  and  golden.  His  breast,  expanding,  heaved  off 
all  petty  constricting  worries,  "like  Samson  his  green 
wythes  " :  they  fell  from  him  as  he  rode,  and  as  he  rode 
he  chanted: 

"The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot  ..." 

68 


MR.  MORTIMER'S  ADVENTURE 

Old  Jubilee — if,  like  John  Gilpin's  horse,  he  won- 
dered more  and  more — was  a  philosophical  beast  and 
knew  his  business.  Abreast  of  the  boat,  beside  the  angle 
of  the  Orphanage  wall,  he  halted  for  his  rider  to  alight, 
and  began  to  nose  for  herbage  among  the  nettles.  Nor  did 
he  betray  surprise  when  Mr.  Mortimer,  after  a  glance 
down  the  towpath  toward  the  iron  bridge  and  the  tram- 
lights  passing  there,  walked  off  and  left  him  to  browse. 

Fifteen  minutes  passed.  The  last  flush  of  sunset  had 
died  out  of  the  sky,  and  twilight  was  deepening  rapidly, 
when  Mr.  Mortimer  came  strolling  back.  Apparently 
— since  he  came  empty-handed — his  search  for  a  sauce- 
pan had  been  unsuccessful.  Yet  patently  the  disap- 
pointment had  not  affected  his  spirits,  for  at  sight  of 
Old  Jubilee  still  cropping  in  the  dusk  he  stood  still  and 
gave  utterance  to  a  lively  whoop. 

The  effect  of  this  sobered  him.  Old  Jubilee  was  not 
alone.  Hurriedly  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  Orphanage 
wall  arose  a  gray-white  figure — a  woman.  It  seemed 
that  she  had  been  kneeling  there.  Now,  as  Mr.  Morti- 
mer advanced,  she  stood  erect,  close  back  against  the 
masonry,  waiting  for  him  to  pass. 

"'s  a  female,"  decided  Mr.  Mortimer,  pulling  him- 
self together  and  advancing  with  a  hand  over  his  brow 
the  better  to  distinguish  the  glimmer  of  her  dress. 
*"s  undoubtedly  a  female.  Seems  to  be  looking  for 
something.  ..."  He  approached  and  lifted  his  hat. 
"Command  me,  madam!" 

69 


TRUE  TILDA 

The  woman  drew  herself  yet  closer  under  the  shadow. 

"Go  your  way,  please!"  she  answered  sharply,  with 
a  catch  of  her  breath. 

"You  mishun'erstand.  Allow  me  iggs — I  beg  par- 
don, eggs— plain.  Name's  Mortimer— Stanislas  'Ratio, 
of  that  ilk.  A  Scotch  exshpression."  Here  he  pulled 
himself  together  again,  and  with  an  air  of  anxious  lu- 
cidity laid  a  precise  accent  on  every  syllable.  "The 
name,  I  flatter  myself,  should  be  a  guarantee.  No  rev- 
eller, madam,  I  s'hure  you;  appearances  against  me, 
but  no  Bacchanal;  still  lesh— shtill  less  I  should  iggs— 
or,  if  you  prefer  it,  eggs— plain,  gay  Lothario.  Trust 
me,  ma'am — married  man,  fifteen  years'  standing — 
Arabella — tha's  my  wife — never  a  moment's  'neasi- 
ness " 

Two  shouls' — you'll  excuse  me,  souls — 'with  but  a 
single  thought, 

Between  you  and  me,  ma'am,  we  have  thoughts  of  apply- 
ing for  Dunmow  flitch.  Quaint  old  custom,  Dunmow 
flitch.    Heard  of  it,  I  dareshay?" 

"I  wish  you  would  go  about  your  business." 

Mr.  Mortimer  emitted  a  tragic  laugh. 

"I  will,  madam — I  will:  if  it  please  you  witness  to 
what  base  uses  we  may  return,  Horatio.  Allow  me  first 
remove  mishunderstanding.  Preshumed  you  to  be 
searching  for  something— hairpin  for  exshample.  Com- 
mon occurrence  with  my  Arabella.    No  offensh— merely 

70 


MR.  MORTIMER'S  ADVENTURE 

proffered    my    shervices.    .    .    .    The  deuce  1     What's 
thatf" 

The  woman  seemed  incHned  to  run,  but  stood  hesi- 
tating. 

"You  heard  it?    There!  close  under  the  wall " 

Mr.  Mortimer  stepped  forward  and  peered  into  the 
shadow.  He  was  standing  close  above  the  manhole,  and 
to  the  confusion  of  all  his  senses  he  saw  the  cover  of  the 
manhole  lift  itself  up ;  saw  the  rim  of  it  rise  two,  three 
inches,  saw  and  heard  it  joggle  back  into  its  socket. 

"For  God's  sake,  go  away!"  breathed  the  woman. 

"Norrabit  of  it,  ma'am.  Something  wrong  here. 
Citizen's  duty,  anything  wrong " 

Here  the  cover  lifted  itself  again.  Mr.  Mortimer 
deftly  slipped  three  fingers  under  its  rim,  and  reaching 
back  with  his  other  hand  produced  from  his  pocket  the 
second  of  Sam's  two  matches. 

"Below  there!"  he  hailed  sepulchrally,  at  the  same 
moment  striking  the  match  on  the  tense  seat  of  his 
trousers  and  holding  it  to  the  aperture.  "Nero  is  an 
angler  in  the  lake  of  darkness  .  .  .  Eh?  .  .  .  Good 
Lord!" — he  drew  back  and  dropped  the  match — "it's 
a  clergyman ! " 

He  clapped  down  the  cover  in  haste,  sprang  to  his 
feet,  and,  lifting  his  hat,  made  her  the  discreetest  of 
bows.    He  was  sober,  now,  as  a  judge. 

"A  thousand  pardons,  madam!  I  have  seen  noth- 
ing— beheve  me,  nothing." 

71 


TRUE  TILDA 

He  strode  in  haste  to  Old  Jubilee's  headstall  and 
began  to  back  him  toward  the  boat.  The  woman 
gazed  at  him  for  a  moment  in  mere  astonishment,  then 
stepped  quickly  to  his  side. 

"I  didn'  know,"  she  stammered.  "You  don't  look 
nor  talk  like  a  bargee." 

Here  her  voice  came  to  a  halt,  but  in  the  dusk  her 
eyes  appeared  to  question  him. 

"  Few  of  us  are  what  we  seem,  ma'am,"  Mr.  Mortimer 
sighed.  "Bargee  for  the  nonce  I  am,  yet  gentleman 
enough  to  understand  a  delicate  situation.  Your  secret 
is  safe  with  me,  and  so  you  may  tell  your— your  friend." 

"Then  you  must  a-seen  them?"  she  demanded. 

"Them?"  echoed  Mr.  Mortimer. 

"No,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  mistaking  his  hesita- 
tion. "They  made  you  promise,  an'  I  don't  want  to 
know.  If  I  knew,  he'd  force  it  out  o'  me,  an'  then  he'd 
cut  my  heart  out." 

She  glanced  over  her  shoulder,  and  Mr.  Mortimer, 
interpreting  the  glance,  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the 
manhole. 

"Meanin'  his  Reverence?"  he  asked. 

"His  name's  Glasson.  The  Orph'nage  belongs  to 
him.  It's  a  serious  thing  for  him  to  lose  one  o'  the  chil- 
dren, and  he's  like  a  madman  about  it  ever  since  ..." 
She  broke  off  and  put  out  a  hand  to  help  him  with  the 
haulage  tackle.    "Where  are  you  taking  her?" 

"Her?    The  boat?    Oh,  back  to  Hucks's-Christo- 

72 


MR.  MORTIMER'S  ADVENTURE 

pher  Hucks,  Anchor  Wharf,  Canal  End  Basin.  'An- 
chor,' you'll  observe — supposed  emblem  of  Hope."  He 
laughed  bitterly. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  nodded.  "And  quick — quick  as 
ever  you  can!  Here,  let  me  help — "  She  caught  at  one 
of  the  two  crowbars  that  served  for  mooring-posts  and 
tugged  at  it,  using  all  her  strength. 

"He'll  be  coming  around  here,"  she  panted,  and 
paused  for  a  moment  to  listen.  "If  he  catches  me 
talkin',  God  knows  what  '11  happen! "  She  tugged  again. 

"Steady  does  it,"  said  Mr.  Mortimer;  and  having 
helped  her  to  draw  the  bar  up,  he  laid  it  in  the  boat  as 
noiselessly  as  he  could  and  ran  to  the  second.  "There's 
no  one  coming,"  he  announced.  "But  see  here,  if 
you're  in  fear  of  the  man,  let  me  have  another  go  at  the 
manhole.  He  may  be  down  there  yet,  and  if  so  I'll  give 
him  the  scare  of  his  life.  Yes,  ma'am,  the  scare  of  his 
life.  You  never  saw  my  Hamlet,  ma'am  ?  You  never 
heard  me  hold  parley  with  my  father's  ghost?  At- 
tend!" 

Mr.  Mortimer  stepped  to  the  manhole  and  struck 
thrice  upon  it  with  his  heel. 

"Glasson!"  he  called,  in  a  voice  so  hollow  that  it 
seemed  to  rumble  down  through  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 
"Glasson,  forbear!" 

"For  God's  sake — "  The  woman  dragged  at  his 
shoulder  as  he  knelt. 

"All  is  discovered,  Glasson!    Thy  house  is  on  fire, 

73 


TRUE  TILDA 

thy  orphans  are  flown.  Rake  not  the  cellarage  for  their 
bones,  but  see  the  newspapers.  Already,  Glasson,  the 
newsboys  run  about  the  streets.  It  spreads,  Glasson; 
mayst  hear  them  call.  Like  wildfire  it  spreads.  'Orri- 
ble  discovery  of  'uman  remains!  A  clergyman  sus- 
pected ! " 

Here  Mr.  Mortimer,  warm  to  his  work,  let  out  a 
laugh  so  blood-curdling  that  Old  Jubilee  bolted  the 
length  of  his  rope. 

"The  boat!"  gasped  the  woman. 

"Eh?" 

Mr.  Mortimer  turned  and  saw  the  boat  glide  by  the 
bank  like  a  shadow;  heard  the  thud  of  Old  Jubilee's 
hoofs,  and  sprang  in  pursuit.  The  woman  ran  with 
him. 

But  the  freshest  horse  cannot  bolt  far  with  a  seventy- 
two-feet  monkey-boat  dragging  on  his  shoulders,  and 
at  the  end  of  fifty  yards,  the  towrope  holding,  Old 
Jubilee  dropped  to  a  jog-trot.  The  woman  caught  her 
breath  as  Mr.  Mortimer  jumped  aboard  and  laid  hold 
of  the  tiller.    But  still  she  ran  beside  panting. 

"You  won't  tell  him?" 

Mr.  Mortimer  waved  a  hand. 

"And — and  you'll  hide  'em — for  he's  bound  to  come 
askin' — you'll  hide  'em  if  you  can " 

Mr.  Mortimer  heard,  but  could  not  answer  for  the 
moment,  the  steerage  claiming  all  his  attention.  When 
he  turned  toward  the  bank  she  was  no  longer  there. 

74 


MR.  MORTIMER'S  ADVENTURE 

He  looked  back  over  his  shoulder.  She  had  come  to  a 
dead  halt  and  stood  watching,  her  print  gown  glimmer- 
ing in  the  dusk.  And  so,  as  the  boat  rounded  the  bend 
by  the  Brewery,  he  lost  sight  of  her. 

He  passed  a  hand  over  his  brow. 

"Mysterious  business,"  he  mused;  "devilish  mys- 
terious. On  the  face  of  it  looks  as  if  my  friend  Smiles, 
not  content  with  self-help,  in  its  ordinary  forms,  has 
been  helping  himself  to  orphans!  Must  speak  to  him 
about  it." 

He  pondered,  gazing  up  the  dim  waterway,  and  by 
and  by  broke  into  a  chuckle. 

He  chuckled  again  twenty  minutes  later,  when,  hav- 
ing stabled  Old  Jubilee,  he  crossed  the  yard  to  sup  and 
to  season  the  meal  with  a  relation  of  his  adventure. 

"Such  an  encounter,  my  poppet!"  he  announced, 
groping  his  way  across  to  the  caravan,  where  his  spouse 
had  lit  the  lamp  and  stood  in  the  doorway  awaiting 
him.  "Smiles — our  ingenuous  Smiles — has  decoyed, 
has  laid  me  under  suspicion;  and  of  what,  d'  you 
think  ?    Stealing  orphans ! " 

"Hush!"  answered  Mrs.  Mortimer.  "They're 
here." 

"They?  Who?  ...  Not  the  bailiffs?  Arabella, 
don't  tell  me  it's  the  bailiffs  again!" 

Mr.  Mortimer  drew  back  as  though  a  snake  lay 
coiled  on  the  caravan  steps. 

75 


TRUE  TILDA 

"It's  not  the  bailiffs,  Stanislas;  it's  the  orphans." 

"But — but,  my  sweet,  there  must  be  some  mistake. 
I — er — actually,  of  course,  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
any  orphans  whatsoever." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have,"  his  wife  assured  him  com- 
posedly.   "They  are  inside  here,  with  a  yellow  dog." 

While  Mr.  Mortimer  yet  reeled  under  this  news  the 
door  of  the  courtyard  rattled  and  creaked  open  in  the 
darkness.  A  lantern  showed  in  the  opening,  and  the 
bearer  of  it,  catching  sight  of  the  lit  caravan,  approached 
with  quick,  determined  strides. 

"Can  you  inform  me,"  asked  a  high  clerical  voice, 
"where  I  can  find  Mr.  Christopher  Hucks?" 

The  stranger  held  his  lantern  high,  so  that  its  ray  fell 
on  his  face,  and  with  that  Mr.  Mortimer  groaned  and 
collapsed  upon  the  lowest  step,  where  mercifully  his 
wife's  ample  shadow  spread  an  segis  over  him. 

"Mr.  Hucks,  sir?"  Mrs.  Mortimer  answered  the 
challenge.  "I  saw  him,  not  twenty  minutes  ago,  step 
into  his  private  office  there  to  the  left,  and  by  the  light 
in  the  window  he's  there  yet." 

"But  who  is  it?"  she  asked,  as  the  stranger,  swing- 
ing his  lantern,  marched  straight  up  to  Mr.  Hucks's 
door. 

"Good  Lord,  it's  the  man  himself— Glasson!  And 
he's  come  for  his  orphans." 

"He  shan't  have  'em,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer. 


76 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN   WHICH   MR.    HUCKS  TAKES   A   HAND 

"A  many-sided  man." — Coleridge  on  Shakespeare. 

Let  Mr.  Christopher  Hucks  introduce  himself  in  his 
own  customary  way,  that  is,  by  presenting  his  card  of 
business : 


CHRISTOPHER  HUCKS 

Anchor  Wharf,  Canal  End  Basin,  Bursfield 
Canal  Carrier,  Lighterman,  Freighter  and  Wharfinger 

Boat  Builder,  Coal  and  General  Merchant 

Auctioneer,  Practical  Valuer,  House  and  Estate  Agent 

Business  Broker,  Accountant,  Commission  Merchant 


Fire,  Life,  Accident  and  Plate  Glass  Insurances  effected 

Fire  and  Income  Tax  Claims  prepared  and  adjusted 

Live  Stock  Insured  against  Death  from  Accident  or  Disease 

Servants'  Registry  Office 


Agent  for  John  Tatlor  and  Co.'s  Phosphate  and  Soluble 

Bone  Manures 

Copperas,  Charcoal,  etc.,  for  Sewage  and  Other  Purposes 

Acids  and  Anilines  for  the  Textile  Trades 


Valuations  for  Probate.     Emigration  Agent 
Private  Arrangements  Negotiated  with  Creditors 


N.B. — All  Kinds  of  River  and  Canal  Craft  Built  or  Re- 
paired, Purchased,  Sold,  or  To  Let.     Note  the  Address 


Mr.  Hucks,  a  widower,  would  have  to  be  content  in 
death  with  a  shorter  epitaph.     In  life  his  neighbours 

77 


TRUE  TILDA 

and  acquaintances  knew  him  as  the  toughest  old  sinner 
in  Bursfield ;  and  indeed  his  office  hours  (from  9  A.  M. 
to  9  p.  M.  nominally — but  he  was  an  early  riser)  allowed 
him  scant  leisure  to  practise  the  Christian  graces.  Yet 
though  many  had  occasion  to  curse  Mr.  Hucks,  few 
could  bring  themselves  to  hate  him.  The  rogue  was  so 
massive,  so  juicy. 

He  stood  six  feet  four  inches  in  his  office  slippers,  and 
measured  fifty-two  inches  in  girth  of  chest.  He  habit- 
ually smoked  the  strongest  shag  tobacco,  and  imbibed 
cold  rum  and  water  at  short  intervals  from  morning  to 
night;  but  these  excesses  had  neither  impaired  his  com- 
plexion, which  was  ruddy,  jovial,  and  almost  un wrinkled, 
nor  dimmed  the  delusive  twinkle  of  his  eyes.  These, 
under  a  pair  of  gray  bushy  brows,  met  the  world  hu- 
morously, while  they  kept  watch  on  it  for  unconsidered 
trifles;  but  never,  perhaps,  so  humorously  as  when  their 
owner,  having  clutched  his  prey,  turned  a  deaf  ear  to 
appeal.  For  the  rest,  Mr.  Hucks  had  turned  sixty,  but 
without  losing  his  hair,  which  in  colour  and  habit  re- 
sembled a  badger's;  and  although  he  had  lived  inland 
all  his  life,  carried  about  with  him  in  his  dress,  his  gait, 
his  speech  an  indefinable  suggestion  of  a  nautical  past. 
If  you  tried  to  fix  it,  you  found  yourself  narrowed  down 
to  explaining  it  by  the  blue  jersey  he  wore  in  lieu  of 
shirt  and  waistcoat.  (He  buttoned  his  braces  over  it, 
and  tucked  its  slack  inside  the  waistband  of  his  trous- 
ers.)   Or,  with  luck,  you  might  learn  that  he  habitually 

78 


IN  WHICH  MR.   HUCKS  TAKES  A  HAND 

slept  in  a  hammock,  and  corroborate  this  by  observing 
the  tousled  state  of  his  back  hair.  But  the  suggestion 
was,  in  fact,  far  more  subtle,  pervasive — almost  you 
might  call  it  an  aroma. 

The  Counting  House — so  he  called  the  single  apart- 
ment in  which  he  slung  his  hammock,  wrote  up  his 
ledgers,  interviewed  his  customers,  and  in  the  intervals 
cooked  his  meals  on  an  oil-stove — was,  in  fact,  a  store 
of  ample  dimensions.  To  speak  precisely,  it  measured 
thirty-six  feet  by  fourteen.  But  Mr.  Hucks  had  reduced 
its  habitable  space  to  some  eight  feet  by  six,  and  by  the 
following  process : 

Over  and  above  the  activities  mentioned  on  his  busi- 
ness card  he  was  a  landlord,  and  owned  a  considerable 
amount  of  cottage  property,  including  a  whole  block  of 
tenement  houses  hard  by  The  Plain.  Nothing  could  be 
simpler  than  his  method  of  managing  this  estate.  He 
never  spent  a  penny  on  upkeep  or  repairs.  On  a  va- 
cancy he  accepted  any  tenant  who  chose  to  apply.  He 
collected  his  rents  weekly  and  in  person,  and  if  the  rent 
were  not  forthcoming  he  promptly  distrained  upon  the 
furniture. 

By  this  process  Mr.  Hucks  kept  his  Counting  House 
replete,  and  even  crowded,  with  chattels,  some  of 
which  are  reckoned  among  the  necessaries  of  life, 
while  others — such  as  an  accordion,  a  rain-gauge,  and 
a  case  of  stuffed  humming-birds — rank  rather  with  its 
superfluities.     Of  others  again  you  wondered  how  on 

79 


TRUE  TILDA 

earth  they  had  been  taken  in  Mr.  Hucks's  drag-net. 
A  carriage  umbrella,  for  example,  sec  you  speculating 
on  the  vicissitudes  of  human  greatness.  When  the  col- 
lection impinged  upon  Mr.  Hucks  so  that  he  could  not 
shave  without  knocking  his  elbow,  he  would  hold  an 
auction,  and  effect  a  partial  clearance;  and  this  would 
happen  about  once  in  four  years.  But  this  clearance  was 
never  more  than  partial,  and  the  residuum  ever  con- 
sisted in  the  main  of  musical  instruments.  Every  man 
has  his  own  superstitions,  and  for  some  reason  Mr. 
Hucks — who  had  not  a  note  of  music  in  his  soul  — 
deemed  it  unlucky  to  part  with  musical  instruments, 
which  was  the  more  embarrassing  because  his  most 
transitory  tenants  happened  to  be  folk  who  practised 
music  on  the  public  for  a  livelihood — German  bands- 
men, for  instance,  not  so  well  versed  in  English  law  as 
to  be  aware  that  implements  of  a  man's  trade  stand  ex- 
empt from  seizure  in  execution.  Indeed,  the  bulk  of  the 
exhibits  in  Mr.  Hucks's  museum  could  legally  have 
been  recovered  from  him  under  writ  of  replevy.  But 
there  they  were,  and  in  the  midst  of  them  to-night  their 
collector  sat  and  worked  at  his  ledger  by  the  light  of  a 
hurricane  lamp. 

A  knock  at  the  door  disturbed  his  calculations. 

"Come  in!"  he  called,  and  Doctor  Glasson  entered. 

"Eh?  Good-evenin', "  said  Mr.  Hucks,  but  with- 
out heartiness. 

He  disliked  parsons.     He  looked  upon  all  men  as 

80 


IN  WHICH  MR.   HUCKS  TAKES  A  HAND 

rogues  more  or  less,  but  held  that  ministers  of  religion 
claimed  an  unfair  advantage  on  the  handicap.  In  par- 
ticular this  Doctor  Glasson  rubbed  him,  as  he  put  it, 
the  wrong  way. 

"Good-evening,"  said  Doctor  Glasson.  "You  will 
excuse  my  calling  at  this  late  hour," 

"  Cert'nly.  Come  to  pay  for  the  coals  ?  Fifteen  tons 
best  Newcastle  at  eighteen  shillin'  makes  thirteen  ten, 
and  six  pounds  owin'  on  the  last  account — total  nine- 
teen ten.    Shall  I  make  out  the  receipt?" 

"You  don't  seriously  expect  me,  Mr.  Hucks,  to 
pay  for  your  coals  on  the  same  day  you  deliver 
them " 

"No,"  Mr.  Hucks  agreed,  "I  didn'  ex'pect  it;  but  I 
looked  for  ye  to  pay  up  the  last  account  before  I  sent 
any  more  on  credit.  I've  told  Simmonds  he  was  a  fool 
to  take  your  order,  and  he'll  get  the  sack  if  it  happens 
again.  Fifteen  tons,  too!  But  Simmonds  has  a  weak 
sort  of  respect  for  parsons.  Sings  in  the  choir  some- 
where. Well,  if  you  ain't  come  to  pay,  you've  come  for 
something;  to  explain,  maybe,  why  you  go  sneakin' 
around  my  foreman  'stead  of  dealin'  with  me  straight 
an'  gettin'  no  for  an  answer." 

"Your  manner  is  offensive,  Mr.  Hucks,  but  for  the 
moment  I  must  overlook  it.  The  fact  is,  I  want  infor- 
mation, if  you  can  give  it,  on  an  urgent  matter.  One 
of  my  charges  is  missing." 

"  Charges  ?  "  repeated  Mr.  Hucks.    "  Eh  ?    Lost  one 

81 


TRUE  TILDA 

of  your  orphans?    Well,  I  haven't  found  him — or  her, 
if  it's  a  girl.    Why  don't  you  go  to  the  police  ?" 

"It  is  a  boy.  Naturally  I  hesitate  to  apply  to  the 
police  if  the  poor  child  can  be  recovered  without  their 
assistance.  Publicity  in  these  matters,  as  no  doubt  you 
can  understand " 

Mr.  Hucks  nodded. 

"I  understand  fast  enough." 

"The  newspapers  exaggerate  .  .  .  and  then  the 
public — even  the  charitable  public — take  up  some 
groundless  suspicion " 

"Puts  two  and  two  together,"  agreed  Mr.  Hucks, 
still  nodding,  "and  then  the  fat's  in  the  fire.  No,  I 
wouldn'  have  the  police  poke  a  nose  into  the  'Oly  Inno- 
cents— not  if  I  was  you.  But  how  do  I  come  into  this 
business?" 

"In  this  way.  One  of  your  employes  was  delivering 
coal  to-day  at  the  Orphanage " 

"Fifteen  ton." 

"  — and  I  have  some  reason  to  believe  that  the  child 
escaped  by  way  of  the  coal-cellar.  I  am  not  suggesting 
that  he  was  helped." 

"Aren't  you?  Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  it,  for 
it  did  look  like  you  was  drivin'  at  something  o'  the  sort. 
I  don't  collect  orphans,  for  my  part,"  said  Mr.  Hucks 
with  a  glance  around. 

"What  I  meant  to  say  was  that  your  man — whoever 
he  was — might  be  able  to  give  some  information." 

82 


IN  WHICH  MR.  HUCKS  TAKES  A  HAND 

"He  might,"  conceded  Mr.  Hucks  guardedly,  "and 
he  mightn't;  and  then  again  hemight  be  more  able 
than  willin'." 

"Must  I  remind  you,  Mr,  Hucks,  that  a  person  who 
abets  or  connives  at  the  sort  of  thing  we  are  discuss- 
ing is  likely  to  find  himself  in  trouble?  or  that 
even  a  refusal  of  information  may  be  awkwardly  con- 
strued?" 

"Now  see  here,  Glasson" — Mr.  Hucks  filled  his 
pipe,  and  having  lit  it,  leaned  both  elbows  on  the  table 
and  stared  across  at  his  visitor — "don't  you  ride  the 
high  horse  with  me.  A  moment  ago  you  weren't  sug- 
gestin'  anything,  and  you'd  best  stick  to  that.  As  for 
my  man — whoever  he  was — you  can't  charge  him  with 
stealin'  one  o'  your  blessed  orphans  until  you  lay  hold 
on  the  orphan  he  stole  and  produce  him  in  court.  That's 
Habeas  Cor'pus,  or  else  'tis  Magna  Charter — I  forget 
which.  What's  more,  you'd  never  face  a  court,  an'  you 
know  it."  He  cast  a  curious  glance  at  the  Doctor's 
face,  and  added,  "Sit  down." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  " 

"Sit  down.  No,  not  there."  But  the  warning  came 
too  late.  "Not  hurt  yourself,  I  hope?"  he  asked,  as 
the  Doctor  rubbed  that  part  of  himself  which  had  come 
into  collision  with  the  sharp  edge  of  a  concertina. 
"Clear  away  that  coil  of  hose  and  take  a  seat  on  the 
packing-case  yonder.  That's  right;  and  now  let's 
talk."    He  puffed  for  a  moment  and  appeared  to  muse. 

83 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Seems  to  me,  Glasson,  you're  in  the  devil  of  a  hurry  to 
catch  this  child." 

"My  anxiety  is  natural,  I  should  hope." 

"No,  it  ain't,"  said  Mr.  Hucks  with  brutal  candour. 
"And  that's  what's  the  matter  with  it.  What's  more, 
you  come  to  me.  Now,"  with  continued  candour,  "I 
ain't  what  you  might  call  a  model  Christian;  but  like- 
wise you  don't  reckon  me  the  sort  that  would  help  you 
pick  up  orphans  just  for  the  fun  of  handin'  'em  over  to 
you  to  starve.  So  I  conclude,"  Mr.  Hucks  wound  up, 
"there's  money  in  this  somewhere." 

Doctor  Glasson  did  not  answer  for  a  few  seconds. 
He  seemed  to  be  considering.  His  eyes  blinked,  and  the 
folds  of  his  lean  throat  worked  as  if  he  swallowed  down 
something. 

"I  will  be  frank  with  you,  Mr.  Hucks,"  he  said  at 
length.  "There  may  or  may  not  be,  as  you  put  it, 
money  in  this.  I  have  kept  this  child  for  close  upon 
eight  years,  and  during  the  last  two  the  Orphanage  has 
not  received  one  penny  of  payment.  He  was  brought 
to  us  at  the  age  of  two  by  a  seafaring  man,  who  declared 
positively  that  the  child  was  not  his,  that  he  was  legiti- 
mate, and  that  he  had  relatives  in  good  position.  The 
man  would  not  tell  me  their  names,  but  gave  me  his 
own  and  his  address — a  coast-guard  station  on  the 
East  coast.  You  will  pardon  my  keeping  these  back 
until  I  know  that  you  will  help  me." 

"Goon." 

84 


IN  WHICH  MR.   HUCKS  TAKES  A  HAND 

"Sufficiently  good  terms  were  offered,  and  for  six 
years  my  charges  were  regularly  met  without  question. 
Then  payment  ceased.  My  demands  for  an  explana- 
tion came  back  through  the  Dead  Letter  Office,  and 
when  I  followed  them  up  by  a  journey  to  the  address 
given,  it  was  to  learn  that  my  man — a  chief  boatman  in 
the  coast-guard  service — had  died  three  months  before, 
leaving  no  effects  beyond  a  pound  or  two  and  the  con- 
tents of  his  sea-chest — no  will — and,  so  far  as  could  be 
traced,  no  kith  or  kin.  So  far,  Mr.  Hucks,  the  business 
does  not  look  promising." 

"All  right,  Glasson.  You  keep  a  child  for  two  years 
on  charity,  and  then  get  into  a  sweat  on  losing  him. 
I  trust  your  scent,  and  am  not  disheartened — yet." 

"The  boy  has  considerable  natural  refinement." 

"You  didn't  keep  him  for  thatf" 

"  It  has  often  suggested  to  me  that  his  parentage  was 
out  of  the  ordinary — that  he  probably  has  relatives  at 
least — er — well-to-do.  But  the  main  point  is  that  he 
did  not  escape  to-day  of  his  own  accord.  He  was  kid- 
napped, and  in  circumstances  that  convince  me  there 
has  been  a  deliberate  plot.  To  my  mind  it  is  incredible 
that  these  children,  without  collusion — "  But  here 
Doctor  Glasson  pulled  himself  up  and  sat  blinking, 

"Eh?  Was  there  more  than  one?"  queried  Mr. 
Hucks,  sharp  as  a  knife. 

"There  was  a  small  girl,  not  one  of  my  charges. 
She  called  on  me  shortly  after  midday  with  a  story  that 

85 


TRUE  TILDA 

an  aunt  of  hers,  who  may  or  may  not  exist,  but  whom 
she  pretended  to  anticipate,  took  an  interest  in  this 
child.  While  she  waited  for  this  aunt's  arrival,  the — er 
— matron,  Mrs.  Huggins,  incautiously  allowed  her 
access  to  the  kitchen  garden,  where — without  my 
knowledge  and  against  my  rules — the  boy  happened 
to  be  working.  The  pair  of  them  have  disappeared; 
and,  further,  I  have  convinced  myself  that  their  exit 
was  made  by  way  of  the  coal-shaft." 

"  A  small  girl,  you  say  ?    What  age  ?  " 

"  About  ten,  as  nearly  as  I  can  guess.  A  slip  of  a  child, 
very  poorly  dressed,  and  walking  with  a  decided  limp." 

"I  follow  you  this  far,"  said  Mr.  Hucks,  ruminating. 
"Allowin'  there's  a  plot,  if  'tis  worth  folks'  while  to 
get  hold  o'  the  child,  'tis  worth  your  while  to  get  him 
back  from  'em.  But  are  you  sure  there's  a  plot  ?  There 
it  don't  seem  to  me  you've  made  out  your  case." 

Mr.  Hucks  said  it  thoughtfully,  but  his  mind  was  not 
working  with  his  speech.  The  coals,  as  he  knew — 
though  he  did  not  propose  to  tell  the  Doctor,  at  any  rate 
just  yet — had  been  delivered  by  Sam  Bossom.  Of 
complicity  in  any  such  plot  as  this  Sam  was  by  nature 
incapable.  On  the  other  hand,  Sam  was  just  the  fel- 
low to  help  a  couple  of  children  out  of  mere  kindness  of 
heart.  Mr.  Hucks  decided  to  have  a  talk  with  Sam 
before  committing  himself.  He  suspected,  of  course — 
nay,  was  certain — that  Glasson  had  kept  back  some- 
thing important. 

86 


IN  WHICH  MR.  HUCKS  TAKES  A  HAND 

Thus  his  meditations  were  running  when  the  Doc- 
tor's reply  switched  the  current  in  a  new  direction. 

"You  have  not  heard  the  whole  of  it.  As  it  happens 
the  man  in  charge  of  the  coal-boat  was  not,  as  I  should 
judge,  one  of  }our  regular  employes — certainly  not  an 
ordinary  bargeman — but  a  person  whose  speech  be- 
trayed him  as  comparatively  well  educated." 

"Eh?"    Mr.  Hucks  sat  upright  and  stared. 

"  I  am  not  suggesting " 

"No,  damme — you'd  better  not!"  breathed  Mr. 
Hucks. 

"Very  possibly  he  had  bribed  your  man  with  the 
price  of  a  pot  of  beer.  At  all  events,  there  he  was,  and 
in  charge  of  the  boat." 

"  You  saw  him  ?    Spoke  to  him  ?  " 

"To  be  accurate,  he  spoke  to  me — down  the  coal- 
shaft,  as  I  was  examining  it.  I  judged  him  to  be  simu- 
lating drunkenness.  But  his  voice  was  a  cultivated 
one — I  should  recognise  it  anywhere;  and  Mrs.  Hug- 
gins,  who  saw  and  spoke  with  him,  describes  him  as  a 
long-faced  man,  of  gentlemanly  bearing,  with  a  furred 
collar." 

"Good  Lord!  Mortimer!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Hucks, 
but  inwardly. 

"I  need  hardly  point  out  to  you  that  a  bargee  in  a 
furred  collar " 

"No,  you  needn't."  Mr.  Hucks  rose  from  his  chair. 
''See  here;  Glasson,  you've  come  with  a  notion  that  I'm 

87 


TRUE  TILDA 

mixed  up  in  this.    Well,  as  it  happens,  you're  wrong. 

I  don't  ask  you  to  take  my  word — I  don't  care  a  d n 

whether  you  believe  me  or  not — only  you're  wrong. 
What's  more,  I'll  give  no  promise  to  help— not  to-night, 
anyway.  But  I'm  goin'  to  look  into  this,  and  to-mor- 
row I'll  tell  you  if  we  play  the  hand  together.  To-mor- 
row at  nine-thirty,  if  that  suits  ?  If  not,  you  can  go  and 
get  the  police  to  help." 

"Time  may  be  precious,"  hesitated  Glasson. 

"Mine  is,  anyway,"  Mr.  Hucks  retorted.  "Let  me 
see  you  out.  No,  it's  no  trouble.  I'm  goin'  to  look  into 
this  affair  right  away." 

He  handed  the  Doctor  his  lantern,  opened  the  door 
for  him,  and  walked  with  him  three  parts  of  the  way 
across  the  yard.  As  they  passed  the  caravan  door  his 
quick  ear  noted  a  strange  sound  within.  It  resembled 
the  muffled  yap  of  a  dog.  But  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mortimer 
did  not  keep  a  dog. 

He    halted.     "There's  the  gate.     Good-night,"  he 
said,  and  stood  watching  while  Glasson  passed  out 
Then,  swinging  on  his  heel,  he  strode  back  to  the  cara 
van. 

"Mortimer!"  he  challenged,  mounting  to  the  third 
step  and  knocking. 

"Ha!  Who  calls?"  answered  the  deep  voice  of  Mr. 
Mortimer  after  two  seconds'  interval. 

"Hucks.    And  I  want  a  word  with  you." 

The  door  opened  a  little  way  .  .  .  and  with  that 

88 


IN  WHICH  MR.  HUCKS  TAKES  A  HAND 

some  one  within  the  van  uttered  a  cry,  as  a  dark  object 
sprang  out  over  the  flap,  hurtled  past  Mr.  Hucks,  and 
hurled  itself  across  the  court  toward  the  gate. 

"'Dolph!  'Dolph!"  called  an  agonised  voice — a 
child's  voice. 

"The  dog's  daft!"  chimed  in  Mr.  Mortimer. 

"'E'llkiirim!" 

As  Mr.  Hucks  recovered  his  balance  and  stared  in  at 
the  caravan  doorway,  now  wide  open,  from  the  dark- 
ness beyond  the  gate  came  a  cry  and  a  fierce  guttural 
bark — the  two  blent  together.  Silence  followed.  Then 
on  the  silence  there  broke  the  sound  of  a  heavy  splash. 


89 


CHAPTER   VIII 

FLIGHT 

"So  all  night  long  and  through  the  dawn  the  ship  cleft  her 
way." — Odyssey,  ii. 

Mr.  Hucks  ran.  Mr.  Mortimer  ran.  As  they 
reached  the  gate  they  heard  the  voice  of  Dr.  Glas- 
son  upHfted,  gurgUng  for  help. 

They  spied  him  at  once,  for  by  a  lucl^y  chance  his 
lantern — one  of  the  common  stable  kind,  with  panes  of 
horn — had  fallen  from  his  grasp  as  he  pitched  over  the 
edge  of  the  basin.  It  floated,  bobbing  on  the  waves 
cast  up  by  his  struggles  and  splashings,  and  by  the  light 
of  it  they  quickly  reached  the  spot.  But  unluckily, 
though  they  could  see  him  well  enough,  they  could 
not  reach  Dr.  Glasson.  He  clung  to  the  head-rope  of 
a  barge  moored  some  nine  feet  from  shore,  and  it  ap- 
peared that  he  was  hurt,  for  his  efforts  to  lift  himself 
up  and  over  the  stem  of  the  boat,  though  persistent, 
were  feeble,  and  at  every  effort  he  groaned.  The  dog 
— cause  of  the  mischief — craned  forward  at  him  over 
the  water,  and  barked  in  indecent  triumph. 

Mr.  Mortimer,  who  had  gone  through  the  form  of 
tearing  off  his  coat,  paused  as  he  unbuttoned  his  waist- 
coat also,  and  glanced  at  Mr.  Hucks. 

90 


FLIGHT 

"Can  you  swim?"  he  asked.  "I — I  regret  to  say  it 
is  not  one  of  my  accomplishments." 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  try  just  yet,"  Mr.  Hucks  answered 
with  creditable  composure.  "They're  bound  to  fetch 
help  between  'em  with  the  row  they're  making.  Just 
hark  to  the  d d  dog." 

Sure  enough  the  alarm  had  been  given.  A  voice  at 
that  moment  hailed  from  one  of  the  boats  across  the 
water  to  know  what  was  the  matter,  and  half  a  dozen 
porters,  canal-men,  night  watchmen  from  the  ware- 
houses, came  running  around  the  head  of  the  basin; 
but  before  they  could  arrive,  a  man  dashed  out  of  the 
darkness  behind  the  two  watchers,  tore  past  them,  and 
sprang  for  the  boat.  They  heard  the  thud  of  his  feet 
as  he  alit  on  her  short  fore-deck,  and  an  instant  later, 
as  he  leaned  over  the  stem  and  gripped  Dr.  Glasson's 
coat-collar,  the  light  of  the  bobbing  lantern  showed 
them  his  face.    It  was  Sam  Bossom. 

He  had  lifted  the  Doctor  waist-high  from  the  water 
before  the  other  helpers  sprang  on  board  and  com- 
pleted the  rescue.  The  poor  man  was  hauled  over  the 
bows  and  stretched  on  the  fore-deck,  where  he  lay 
groaning  while  they  brought  the  boat  alongside  the 
quay's  edge.  By  this  time  a  small  crowd  had  gathered, 
and  was  being  pressed  back  from  the  brink  and  ex- 
horted by  a  belated  policeman. 

It  appeared,  as  they  lifted  him  ashore,  that  the  Doc- 
tor, beside  the  inconvenience  of  a  stomachful  of  dirty 

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TRUE  TILDA 

canal  water,  was  suffering  considerable  pain.  In  his 
fright  (the  dog  had  not  actually  bitten  him)  he  had 
blundered,  and  struck  his  knee-cap  violently  against 
a  bollard  close  by  the  water's  edge,  and  staggering 
under  the  anguish  of  it,  had  lost  his  footing  and  col- 
lapsed overboard.  Then,  finding  that  his  fingers  could 
take  no  hold  on  the  slippery  concrete  wall  of  the  basin, 
with  his  sound  leg  he  had  pushed  himself  out  from  it 
and  grasped  the  barge's  head-rope.  All  this,  between 
groans,  he  managed  to  explain  to  the  policeman,  who, 
having  sent  for  an  ambulance  stretcher,  called  for  vol- 
unteers to  carry  him  home;  for  home  Dr.  Glasson  in- 
sisted on  being  taken,  putting  aside — and  with  great 
firmness — the  suggestion  that  he  would  be  better  in 
hospital. 

Sam  Bossom  was  among  the  first  to  offer  his  services. 
But  here  his  master  interposed. 

*'No,  no,  my  lad,"  said  Mr.  Hucks  genially,  "you've 
behaved  pretty  creditable  already,  and  now  you  can 
give  the  others  a  turn.  The  man's  all  right,  or  will  be 
by  to-morrow;  and  as  it  happens,"  he  added  in  a  lower 
tone,  "I  want  five  minutes'  talk  with  you,  and  at  once." 

They  watched  while  the  sufferer  was  hoisted  into 
his  stretcher.  So  the  escort  started,  the  policeman 
walking  close  behind  and  the  crowd  follow Vng  the  po- 
liceman. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Hucks  as  they  passed  out  of  sight, 
"you'll  just  step  into  the  yard  and  answer  a  few  ques- 

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FLIGHT 

tions.  You  too,  sir,"  he  turned  to  Mr.  Mortimer  and 
led  the  way.  " Hullo! " — he  let  out  a  kick  at  Godolphus 
snuffling  at  the  yard  gate,  and  Godolphus,  smitten  on 
the  ribs,  fled  yelping.  "Who  the  devil  owns  that  cur?" 
demanded  Mr.  Hucks,  pushing  the  gate  open. 

"I  do,"  answered  a  voice  just  within,  close  at  his 
elbow.  "An'  I'll  arsk  you  not  to  fergit  it.  Ought  to 
be  ashamed  o'  yerself,  kickin'  a  pore  dumb  animal  like 
that!" 

"Eh?"  Mr.  Hucks  passed  down  into  the  darkness. 
"Sam,  fetch  a  lantern.  ...  So  you're  the  young  lady 
I  saw  just  now  inside  o'  the  van,  and  unless  I'm  mis- 
taken, a  nice  job  you're  responsible  for." 

Tilda  nodded.  'Dolph's  indiscretion  had  put  her  in 
a  desperate  fix;  but  something  told  her  that  her  best 
chance  with  this  man  was  to  stand  up  to  him  and  show 
fight. 

"Is  he  drowned?"  she  asked. 

"Drowned?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Only  a  trifle  wet,  and 
a  trifle  scared — thanks  to  that  poor  dumb  animal  of 
yours.    A  trifle  hurt,  too." 

"I'm  sorry  he  wasn't  drowned,"  said  Tilda. 

"Well,  you're  a  nice  Christian  child,  I  must  say. 
Start  with  kidnappin',  and  then  down  on  your  luck 
because  you  haven't  wound  up  with  murder!  Where's 
the  boy  you  stole?" 

"In  the  caravan." 

"Fetch  him  out." 

93 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Shan't!" 

"Now  look  here,  missie " 

"I  shan't,"  repeated  Tilda.  "Oh,  Mr.  Bossom,  you 
won't  let  them!  They're  strong,  I  know  .  .  .  but  he's 
got  a  knife  that  he  took  when  Mr.  Mortimer's  back 
was  turned,  and  if  they  try  to  drag  'ira  back  to  that 
Orph'nige " 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!"  Mr.  Hucks  interrupted. 
"Who  talked  about  handin'  him  back?    Not  me." 

"Then  you  won't?" 

"I'm  not  sayin'  that,  neither.  Fetch  the  boy  along 
into  my  Counting  House.  You  and  me  must  have  a 
talk  about  this — in  fact,  I  want  a  word  with  everybody 
consarned." 

Tilda  considered  for  a  moment,  and  then  announced 
a  compromise. 

"Tell  you  what,"  she  said,  "I  don't  mind  comin* 
along  with  you  first— not  if  you  let  'Dolph  come  too." 

"I  shan't  let  him  murder  me,  if  that's  in  your  mind." 

Mr.  Hucks  grinned. 

"You  can  call  the  others  in  if  he  tries,"  Tilda  an- 
swered seriously.  "But  he  won't,  not  if  you  be'ave. 
An'  then,"  she  went  on,  "you  can  arsk  me  anything  you, 
like,  an'  I'll  answer  as  truthful  as  I  can." 

"Can't  I  see  the  boy  first?"  asked  Mr.  Hucks, 
hugely  tickled. 

"No,  you  can't!" 

"You're  hard  on  me,"  he  sighed.    The  child  amused 

94 


FLIGHT 

him,  and  this  suggestion  of  hers  exactly  jumped  with 
his  wishes.  "But  no  tricks,  mind.  You  others  can 
look  after  the  boy — I  make  you  responsible  for  him. 
And  now  this  way,  missie,  if  you'll  do  me  the  honour!" 

Tilda  called  to  'Dolph,  and  the  pair  followed  Mr. 
Hucks  to  the  Counting  House,  where,  as  he  turned  up 
the  lamp,  he  told  the  child  to  find  herself  a  seat.  She 
did  not  obey  at  once;  she  was  watching  the  dog.  But 
'Dolph,  it  appeared,  bore  Mr.  Hucks  no  malice.  He 
walked  around  for  thirty  seconds  smelling  the  furniture, 
found  a  rag  mat,  settled  himself  down  on  it,  and  sat 
wagging  his  tail  with  a  motion  regular  almost  as  a  pen- 
dulum's. Tilda,  observing  it,  heaved  a  small  sigh,  and 
perched  herself  on  the  packing-case,  where  she  con- 
fronted Mr.  Hucks  fair  and  square  across  the  table. 

"Now  you  just  sit  there  and  answer  me,"  said  Mr. 
Hucks,  seating  himself  and  filling  a  pipe.  "  First,  who's 
mthis?" 

"Me,"  answered  Tilda.    "Me  and  'im." 

Mr.  Hucks  laid  down  his  pipe,  spread  his  fingers  on 
the  table,  and  made  as  if  to  rise. 

"I  thought,"  said  he,  "you  had  more  sense  in  you 
'n  an  ord'nary  child.  Seems  you  have  less,  if  you  start 
foohn'." 

"I  can't  'elp  'ow  you  take  it,"  Tilda  answered.  "I 
got  to  tell  you  what's  true,  an'  chance  the  rest.  Mr. 
Sam  Bossom,  'e  gave  us  a  'and  at  the  coal-'ole,  an'  Mr. 
Mortimer  got  mixed  up  in  it  later  on;  an'  that's  all  they 

95 


TRUE  TILDA 

know  about  it.    There's  nobody  elst,  unless  you  count 
the  pore  woman  at  the  orspital,  an'  she's  dead." 

"That  aunt  of  yours— is  she  dead  too?" 

Tilda  grinned. 

"You've  been  talkin'  to  Glasson." 

"P'r'aps,"  suggested  Mr.  Hucks,  after  a  shrewd  glance 
at  her,  "you'd  best  tell  me  the  story  in  your  own  way." 

"That's  what  I'd  like.  You  see,"  she  began,  "I 
been  laid  up  three  weeks  in  'orspital— the  Good  Samar- 
itan, if  you  know  it— along  o'  bein'  kicked  by  a  pony. 
End  o'  last  week  they  brought  in  a  woman — dyin'  she 
was,  an'  in  a  dreadful  state,  an'  talkin'.  I  ought  to 
know,  'cos  they  put  her  next  bed  to  mine;  s'pose  they 
thought  she'd  be  company.  All  o'  one  night  she  never 
stopped  talkin',  callin'  out  for  somebody  she  called 
Arthur.  Seemed  as  she  couldn'  die  easy  until  she'd 
seen  'im.  Next  day— that's  yesterday— her  mind  was 
clearer,  an'  I  arsked  her  who  Arthur  was  an'  where  he 
lived,  if  one  had  a  mind  to  fetch  'im.  I  got  out  of  her 
that  he  was  called  Arthur  Miles  Surname  Chandon,  an' 
that  he  lived  at  'Oly  Innercents.  So  this  momin',  bein' 
allowed  out,  I  went  down  to  the  place  an'  arsked  to  see 
Arthur  Miles  Surname  Chandon.  First  thing  I  noticed 
was  they  didn'  know  he  was  called  Chandon,  for 
Glasson  took  a  piece  o'  paper  an'  wrote  it  down.  I 
was  afraid  of  Glasson,  an'  pitched  that  yarn  about  an 
aunt  o'  mine,  which  was  all  kid.    I  never  'ad  no  aunt." 

"What's  your  name,  by  the  wav?" 

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FLIGHT 

"Tilda." 

"Tilda  what?" 

"That's  what  they  all  arsks,"  said  Tilda  wearily. 
"I  dunno.  If  a  body  can't  do  without  father  an' 
mother,  I'll  make  up  a  couple  to  please  you,  same  as 
I  made  up  a  aunt  for  Glasson.  Maggs's  Circus  is  where 
I  belong  to,  an'  there  'twas  Tilda,  or  'The  Child  Acro- 
bat' when  they  billed  me." 

"You  don't  look  much  like  an  acrobat,"  com- 
mented Mr.  Hucks. 

"Don't  I?  Well,  you  needn't  to  take  that  on  trust, 
anyway." 

The  child  stepped  down  from  the  packing-case, 
stretched  both  arms  straight  above  her,  and  began  to 
bend  the  upper  part  of  her  body  slowly  backward,  as 
though  to  touch  her  heels  with  the  backs  of  her  fingers, 
but  desisted  half-way  with  a  cry  of  pain.  "Ow!  It 
hurts."  She  stood  erect  again  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 
"  But  'Dolph  will  show  you,"  she  added  upon  a  sudden 
happy  thought,  and  kneeling,  stretched  out  an  arm 
horizontally. 

"Hep, 'Dolph!" 

The  dog,  with  a  bark  of  intelligence,  sprang  across 
her  arm,  turned  on  his  hind  legs,  and  sprang  back 
again.  She  crooked  her  arm  so  that  the  tips  of  her  fin- 
gers touched  her  hip,  and  with  another  bark  he  leapt 
between  arm  and  body  as  through  a  hoop. 

"He  don't  properly  belong  to  me,"  explained  Tilda. 

97 


TRUE  TILDA 

"He  belongs  to  Bill,  that  works  the  engine  on  Gavel's 
roundabouts;  but  he  lamed  his  tricks  off  me.  That  '11 
do,  'Dolph;  go  an'  lie  down." 

"He's  a  clever  dog,  and  I  beg  his  pardon  for  kicking 
him,"  said  Mr.  Hucks  with  a  twinkle. 

"  He's  better  'n  clever.  Why,  'twas  'Dolph  that  got 
us  out." 

"What,  from  the  Orph'nage?" 

"Yes."  Tilda  described  how  the  Doctor  had  shut 
her  in  his  drawing-room,  how  she  had  escaped  to  the 
garden  and  found  the  boy  there,  and  how  'Dolph  had 
discovered  the  coal-shaft  for  them.  "An'  then  Mr. 
Bossom  'e  'elped  us  out  an'  put  us  across  the  canal. 
That's  all  the  'and  'e  took  in  it.  An'  from  the  canal 
I  'urried  Arthur  Miles  up  to  the  Good  Samaritan;  but 
when  we  got  there  his  mother  was  dead — becos  o* 
course  she  must  a-been  his  mother.  An'  so,"  Tilda 
wound  up,  "I  turned-to  an'  adopted  'im,  an'  we  came 
along  'ere  to  arsk  Mr.  Bossom  to  'elp  us.  An'  now — if 
you  give  'im  up  it  '11  be  a  burnin'  shame,  an'  Gawd  '11 
pull  your  leg  for  it." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Hucks  after  a  few 
moments'  thought.  "That's  all  very  well,  missie,"  he 
repeated,  "but  grown-up  folks  can't  take  your  easy 
way  wi'  the  law.  You're  askin'  me  to  aid  an'  abet, 
knowin'  him  to  be  stolen;  an*  that's  serious.  If  'twas 
a  matter  between  you  an'  me,  now — or  even  between 
us  an'  Sam  Bossom.    But  the  devil  is,  these  playactors 

98 


FLIGHT 

have  mixed  themselves  up  in  it,  and  the  Doctor  is  warm 
on  Mortimer's  scent." 

"I  thought  o'  that  d'reckly  he  told  me.  But  O,  Mr. 
'Ucks,  I  thought  on  such  a  neav'nly  plan!"  Tilda 
clasped  hands  over  an  uplifted  knee  and  gazed  on  him. 
Her  eyes  shone.  "They  told  me  you  was  keepin'  them 
here  for  debt;  but  that's  nonsense,  becos  they  can't 
never  pay  it  back  till  you  let  'em  make  money." 

"  A  fat  lot  I  shall  ever  get  from  Mortimer  if  I  let  him 
out  o'  my  sight.    You  don't  know  Mr.  Mortimer." 

"Don't  I ?"  was  Tilda's  answer.  "What  d'yer  take 
me  for?  Why,  everybody  knows  what  Mr.  Mortimer's 
like — everybody  in  Maggs's,  anyway.  He's  born  to 
borrow,  Bill  says ;  though  at  Hamlet  or  Seven  Nights  in 
a  Bar-Room  he  beats  the  band.  But  as  I  said  to  his 
wife,  'Why  shouldn't  Mr.  'Ucks  keep  your  caravan 
against  what  you  owe,  an'  loan  you  a  barge  ?  He  could 
put  a  man  in  charge  to  look  after  your  takin's,  so's  you 
wouldn'  get  out  o'  reach  till  the  money  was  paid:  an' 
you  could  work  the  small  towns  along  the  canal,  where 
the  shows  don't  almost  never  reach.  You  won't  want 
no  more  'n  a  tent,'  I  said,  'an'  next  to  no  scenery;  an' 
me  an'  Arthur  Miles  could  be  the  ' '  Babes  in  the  Wood  " 
or  the  "Princes  in  the  Tower"  for  you,  with  'Dolph  to 
fill  up  the  gaps. ' " 

"Dam  me,"  said  Mr.  Hucks,  staring,  "if  you're  not 
the  cleverest  for  your  size! " 

"'Eav'nly — that  was  Mrs.  Mortimer's  word  for  it; 

99 


TRUE  TILDA 

an'  Mr.  Mortimer  said  'twas  the  dream  of  'is  life  to 
pop " 

"Eh?" 

"It  began  with  pop — to  pop  something  Shakespeare 
in  places  where  they  'adn't  'eard  of  'im.  But  you  know 
IS  way. 

Mr.  Hucks  arose,  visibly  pondering.  'Dolph,  who 
had  been  keeping  an  eye  on  him,  rose  also,  and 
'Dolph's  tail  worked  as  if  attached  to  a  steam-engine. 

"There's  a  cargo,  mostly  beer,  to  be  fetched  up  from 
Stratford,"  said  Mr.  Hucks  after  a  pause.  "Sam 
Bossom  might  take  down  the  Success  to  Commerce  for 
it,  and  he's  as  well  out  o'  the  way  wi'  the  rest  o'  you." 

Tilda  clapped  her  hands. 

"Mind  you,"  he  went  on,  "I'm  not  includin'  any 
orphan.  I  got  no  consarn  with  one.  I  haven't  so  much 
as  seen  him." 

He  paused,  with  his  eyes  fixed  severely  on  Tilda's. 

She  nodded. 

"O'  course  not." 

"And  if,  when  you  go  back  to  the  van  and  tell  the 
Mortimers,  you  should  leave  the  door  open  for  a  min- 
ute, forgetful-like,  why  that's  no  affair  o'  mine." 

"I'm  a'most  certain  to  forget,"  owned  Tilda.  "If 
you'd  been  brought  up  half  yer  time  in  a  tent " 

"  To  be  sure.  Now  attend  to  this.  I  give  Sam  Bos- 
som instructions  to  take  the  boat  down  to  Stratford 
with  three  passengers  aboard — you  and  the  Mortimers 

100 


FLIGHT 

— as  a  business  speckilation ;  and  it  may  so  happen — 
I  don't  say  it  will,  mind  you — that  sooner  or  later  Mor- 
timer '11  want  to  pick  up  an  extry  hand  to  strengthen 
his  company.  Well,  he  knows  his  own  business,  and 
inside  o'  limits  I  don't  interfere.  Still,  I'm  financin'  this 
voyage,  as  you  might  say,  and  some  one  must  keep  me 
informed.  F'r  instance,  if  you  should  be  joined  by  a 
party  as  we'll  agree  to  call  William  Bennetts,  I  should 
want  to  know  how  William  Bennetts  was  doin',  and 
what  his  purf essional  plans  were ;  and  if  you  could  find 
out  anything  more  about  W.  B. — that  he  was  respect- 
ably connected,  we'll  say — why  so  much  the  better. 
Understand?" 

"You  want  Mr.  Mortimer  to  write?"  asked  Tilda 
dubiously. 

"No,  I  don't.  I  want  you  to  write — that's  to  say,  if 
you  can." 

"I  can  print  letters,  same  as  the  play-bills." 

"That  '11  do.  You  can  get  one  o'  the  Mortimers  to 
address  the  envelopes.  And  now,"  said  Mr.  Hucks, 
"I'd  best  be  off  and  speak  to  Sam  Bossom  to  get  out 
the  boat.  Show  folks,"  he  added  thoughtfully,  "likes 
travellin'  by  night,  I'm  told.    It's  cooler." 

Two  hours  later,  as  the  Brewery  clock  struck  eleven, 
a  canal-boat,  towed  by  a  glimmering  gray  horse,  glided 
southward  under  the  shadow  of  the  Orphanage  wall. 
It  passed  this  and  the  iron  bridge,  and  pursued  its  way 
through  the  dark  purlieus  of  Bursfield    toward    the 

101 


TRUE  TILDA 

open  country.    Its  rate  of  progression  was  steady,  and 
a  trifle  under  three  miles  an  hour. 

Astride  the  gray  horse  sat  Mr.  Mortimer,  consciously 
romantic.  The  darkness,  the  secrecy  of  the  flight — the 
prospect  of  recovered  liberty — beyond  this,  the  goall 
As  he  rode,  Mr.  Mortimer  murmured  beatifically : 
"  To  Stratford !  To  Stratford-on-Avon ! " 
Sam  Bossom  stood  on  the  small  after-deck  and 
steered.  In  the  cabin  Mrs.  Mortimer  snatched  what 
repose  was  possible  on  a  narrow  side-locker  to  a  person 
of  her  proportions;  and  on  the  cabin  floor  at  her  feet, 
in  a  nest  of  theatrical  costumes,  the  two  children  slept 
dreamlessly,  tired  out,  locked  in  each  other's  arms. 


102 


CHAPTER  IX 

FREEDOM 

"0,  a  bargeman's  is  the  life  for  me, 

Though  ther's  nothin'  to  he  seen  but  sener-ee!" 

— Old  Song. 

A  PALE  shaft  of  daylight  slanted  through  the  cabin 
doorway.  It  touched  Tilda's  eyelids,  and  she  opened 
them  at  once,  stared,  and  relaxed  her  embrace. 

"Awake?"  asked  Mrs.  Mortimer's  voice  from  the 
shadow  above  the  locker.  "Well,  I'm  glad  of  that, 
because  I  want  to  get  to  the  stove.  Sardines,"  said 
Mrs.  Mortimer,  "you  can  take  out  with  a  fork;  but, 
packed  as  we  are,  when  one  moves  the  rest  must  follow 
suit.    Is  the  boy  stirring,  too?" 

"No,"  answered  Tilda,  peering  down  on  him.  But 
as  she  slipped  her  arm  from  under  his  neck,  he  came 
out  of  dreamland  with  a  quick  sob  and  a  shudder  very 
pitiful  to  hear  and  to  feel.  "Hush!"  she  whispered, 
catching  at  his  hand  and  holding  it  firmly.  "It's  me 
— Tilda;  an'  you  won't  go  back  there  never  no  more." 

"I — I  thought — "  said  he,  and  so  with  an  easier  sob 
lay  still. 

103 


TRUE  TILDA 

"O*  course  you  did,"  Tilda  soothed  him,  "But 
what's  'appened  to  the  boat,  ma'am?" 

"We  are  at  anchor.  If  you  want  to  know  why,  you 
had  best  crawl  out  and  ask  Mr.  Bossom.  He  gave  the 
order,  and  Stanislas  has  gone  ashore  to  buy  provisions. 
Marketing,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer,  "is  not  my  husband's 
strong  point,  but  we'll  hope  for  the  best." 

The  cabin  doorway  was  low  as  well  as  narrow.  Look- 
ing through  it,  Tilda  now  discerned  in  the  gathering 
daylight  the  lower  half  of  Sam  Bossom's  person.  He 
sat  with  his  legs  dangling  over  the  break  of  the  stair- 
way, and  as  the  children  crawled  forth  they  perceived 
that  he  was  busy  with  a  small  notebook. 

"Why  are  we  stoppin'  here?"  demanded  Tilda,  with 
a  glance  about  her. 

The  boat  lay  moored  against  the  bank  opposite  the 
towpath,  where  old  Jubilee  stood  with  his  face  deep 
in  a  nosebag.  He  stood  almost  directly  against  the 
rising  sun,  the  effect  of  which  was  to  edge  his  outline 
with  gold,  while  his  flank  presented  the  most  delicate 
of  lilac  shadows.  Beyond  him  stretched  a  level  coun- 
try intersected  with  low  hedges,  all  a-dazzle  under  the 
morning  beams.  To  the  left  the  land  sloped  gently 
upward  to  a  ridge  crowned,  a  mile  away,  by  a  strag- 
gling line  of  houses  and  a  single  factory  chimney.  Right 
astern,  over  Mr.  Bossom's  shoulder,  rose  the  clustered 
chimneys,  tall  stacks,  church  spires  of  the  dreadful 
town,  already  wreathed  in  smoke.    It  seemed  to  Tilda, 

104 


FREEDOM 

although  here  were  meadows  and  clean  waterflags 
growing  by  the  brink,  and  a  wide  sky  all  around,  that 
yet  this  ugly  smoke  hung  on  their  wake  and  threatened 
them. 

"Why  are  we  stoppin'?"  she  demanded  again,  as 
Sam  Bossom,  with  a  hurried  if  friendly  nod,  resumed 
his  calculations. 

"And  four  is  fifteen,  and  fifteen  is  one-an'-three," 
said  he.  "Which,"  he  added,  looking  up  as  one  who 
would  stand  no  contradiction,  "is  the  'alf  of  two-an'- 
six.  .  .  .  You'll  excuse  me,  missy,  but  business  first 
an'  pleasure  afterward.  We're  stoppin'  here  for  the 
day." 

"For  the  day?"  echoed  Tilda,  with  a  dismayed 
look  astern.    "An'  we've  on'y  come  this  far!" 

"Pretty  good  goin',  I  should  call  it,"  Mr.  Bossom 
assured  her  cheerfully.  "Six  locks  we've  passed  while 
you  was  asleep,  not  countin'  the  stop-lock.  But  may 
be  you're  not  used  to  travel  by  canal  ?" 

"I  thank  the  Lord,  no;  or  I'd  never  'ave  put  Mr. 
'Ucks  up  to  it.    Why,  I'd  walk  it  quicker,  crutch  an'  all." 

"What  'd  you  call  a  reas'nable  price  for  eggs,  now 
— at  this  time  o'  year?"  asked  Mr.  Bossom,  abstract- 
edly sucking  the  stump  of  a  pencil  and  frowning  at  his 
notebook.  But  of  a  sudden  her  words  seemed  to  strike 
him,  and  he  looked  up  round-eyed. 

"You  ain't  tellin'  me  you  put  this  in  'Ucks's  mind  ?'* 

"'Course  I  did,"  owned  Tilda  proudly. 

105 


TRUE  TILDA 

"An'  got  me  sent  to  Stratf ord-on-Avon ! "  Mr.  Bos- 
som  added.  "Me  that  stood  your  friend  when  you  was 
in  a  tight  place!" 

"No,  I  didn'.  It  was  'Ucks  that  mentioned  Strat- 
ford— said  you'd  find  a  cargo  of  beer  there,  which 
sounded  all  right:  an'  Mortimer  jumped  at  it  soon  as 
ever  he  'eard  the  name.  Mortimer  said  it  was  the 
dream  of  his  youth  an'  the  perspiration  of  his  some- 
thing else — I  can't  tell  the  ezact  words;  but  when  he 
talked  like  that,  how  was  I  to  guess  there  was  anything 
wrong  with  the  place  ?  " 

"There  ain't  anything  wrong  wi'  the  flace,  that  I 
know  by,"  Mr.  Bossom  admitted. 

"But  I  remember  another  thing  he  said,  because  it 
sounded  to  me  even  funnier.  He  said,  'Sweet  swan  of 
Avon  upon  the  banks  of  Thames,  that  did  so  please 
Eliza  and  our  James.'  Now  what  did  he  mean  by  that  ?" 

Mr.  Bossom  considered  and  shook  his  head. 

"Some  bank-'oliday  couple,  I  reckon;  friends  of 
his,  maybe.  But  about  that  swan — Mortimer  must 
'a-been  talkin'  through  his  hat.  Why  to  get  to  the 
Thames  that  bird  'd  have  to  go  up  the  Stratford-on- 
Avon  to  Kingswood  cut,  down  the  Warwick,  an'  Bir- 
mingham to  Budbrooke — with  a  trifle  o'  twenty-one 
locks  at  Hatton  to  be  worked  or  walked  round;  cross 
by  the  Warwick  an'  Napton — another  twenty-two 
locks;  an'  all  the  way  down  the  Oxford  Canal,  which 
from  Napton  is  fifty  miles  good." 

106 


FREEDOM 

"She'd  be  an  old  bird  before  she  got  there,  at  our 
pace,"  Tilda  agreed.  "But,  o'  course,  Mr.  Bossom, 
if  we  want  to  get  to  Stratford  quick,  an'  you  don't, 
you'll  make  the  pace  what  you  like  an'  never  mind  us." 

"Who  said  I  didn'  want  to  get  to  Stratford?"  he 
asked  almost  fiercely,  and  broke  off  with  a  groan. 
"Oh,  it's  'ard! — it's  'ard!  .  .  .  And  me  sittin'  here 
calcilatin'  eggs  an'  milk  domestic-like  and  thinkin' 
what  bliss.  .  .  .  But  you  don't  understand.  O'  course 
you  don't.    Why  should  you  ?  " 

Tilda  placed  her  hands  behind  her  back,  eyed  him 
for  half-a-minute,  and  sagely  nodded. 

"Well,  I  never!"  she  said.  "Oh,  my  goodness 
gracious  mercy  me!" 

"I  can't  think  what  you're  referrin'  to,"  stammered 
Mr.  Bossom. 

"  So  we're  in  love,  are  we  ?  " 

He  cast  a  guilty  look  around. 

"There's  Mortimer,  comin'  down  the  path,  an'  only 
two  fields  away." 

"And  it's  a  long  story,  is  it?  Well,  I'll  let  you  off 
this  time,"  said  Tilda.  "  But  listen  to  this,  an'  don't  you 
fergit  it.  If  along  o'  your  dawdlin'  they  lay  hands  on 
Arthur  Miles  here,  I'll  never  fergive  you — no,  never." 

"You  leave  that  to  me,  missie.  And  as  for  dawdlin', 
why  if  you  understood  about  canals,  you'd  know  there's 
times  when  dawdlin'  makes  the  best  speed.  Now  just 
you  bear  in  mind  the  number  o'  things  I've  got  to  think 

107 


TRUE  TILDA 

of.  First,  we'll  say,  there's  you  an'  the  boy.  Well,  who's 
goin'  to  look  for  you  here,  aboard  an  innercent  boat  laid 
here  between  locks  an'  waitin'  till  the  full  of  her  cargo 
comes  down  to  Tizzer's  Green  wharf  or  Ibbetson's? 
Next" — he  checked  off  the  items  on  his  fingers — 
"there's  the  Mortimers.  In  duty  to  'Ucks,  I  got  to 
choose  Mortimer  a  pitch  where  he'll  draw  a  'ouse. 
Bein'  new  to  this  job,  I'd  like  your  opinion;  but  where, 
thinks  I,  '11  he  likelier  draw  a  'ouse  than  at  Tizzer's 
Green  yonder? — two  thousand  op'ratives,  an'  I  doubt 
if  the  place  has  ever  seen  a  travellin'  theayter  since  it 
started  to  grow.  Anyway,  Mortimer  has  been  pushin' 
inquiries:  an'  that  makes  Secondly.  Thirdly,  I  don't 
know  much  about  play-actors,  but  Mortimer  tells  me 
he  gets  goin'  at  seven-thirty  an'  holds  'em  spellbound 
till  something  after  ten;  which  means  that  by  the  time 
we've  carted  back  the  scenery  an'  shipped  an'  stowed 
it,  an'  got  the  tarpaulins  on,  an'  harnessed  up,  we  shan't 
get  much  change  out  o'  midnight.  Don't  lose  your  pa- 
tience now,  because  we  haven't  come  to  the  end  of  it  yet 
— not  by  a  long  way.  By  midnight,  say,  we  get  started 
an'  haul  up  to  Knowlsey  top  lock,  which  is  a  matter  of 
three  miles.    What  do  we  find  there  ?" 

"Dunno,"  said  Tilda  wearily.     "A  brass  band  per- 
'aps,  an'  a  nillumynated  address,  congratylatin'  yer." 

Sam  ignored  this  sarcasm. 

"  We  find,  likely  as  not,  a  dozen  boats  hauled  up  for 
the  night,  blockin'  the  fairway,  an'  all  the  crews  ashore 

108 


FREEDOM 

at  the  'Ring  o'  Bells'  or  the  'Lone  Woman,'  where  they 
doss  an'  where  the  stabUn'  is.  Not  a  chance  for  us  to 
get  through  before  mornin';  an'  then  in  a  crowd  with 
everybody  wantin'  to  know  what  Sam  Bossom's  doin' 
with  two  children  aboard.  Whereas,"  he  concluded, 
"if  we  time  ourselves  to  reach  Knowlsey  by  seven  in  the 
mornin',  they'll  all  have  locked  through  an'  left  the 
coast  clear." 

Said  Tilda,  still  contemptuous : 

"I'd  Hke  to  turn  Bill  loose  on  this  navigation  o* 
yours,  as  you  call  it." 

"'Go's  Bill?" 

"He  works  the  engine  on  Gavel's  roundabouts;  an' 
he's  the  best  an'  the  cleverest  man  in  the  world." 

"Unappre'shated,  I  s'pose?" 

"Why,  if  you  'ad  Bill  aboard  this  boat,  in  less  'n  a 
workin'  day  he'd  'ave  her  fixed  up  with  boiler  an' 
engine  complete,  an'  be  drivin'  her  like  a  train." 

Mr.  Bossom  grinned. 

"I'd  like  to  see  'im  twenty  minutes  later,  just  to  con- 
gratilate  'im.  You  see,  missie,  a  boat  can't  go  faster 
than  the  water  travels  past  'er — which  is  rhyme,  though 
I  made  it  myself,  an'  likewise  reason.    Can  she,  now?" 

"I  s'pose  not,"  Tilda  admitted  doubtfully. 

"Well,  now,  if  your  friend  Bill  started  to  drive  th' 
old  Success  to  Commerce  like  a  train,  first  he'd  be  sur- 
prised an'  disappointed  to  see  her  heavin'  a  two-foot 
wave  ahead  of  her — maybe  more,  maybe  less — along 

109 


TRUE  TILDA 

both  banks;  an'  next  it  might  annoy  'im  a  bit  when 
these  two  waves  fell  together  an'  raised  a  weight  o' 
water  full  on  her  bows,  whereby  she'd  travel  like  a  slug, 
an'  the  'arder  he  drove  the  more  she  wouldn'  go ;  let  be 
that  she'd  give  'im  no  time  to  cuss,  even  when  I  arsked 
'im  perlitely  what  it  felt  like  to  steer  a  monkey  by  the 
tail.  Next  an'  last,  if  he  should  'appen  to  find  room  for 
a  look  astern  at  the  banks,  it  might  vex  'im — bein'  the 
best  o'  men  as  well  as  the  cleverest — to  notice  that  he 
adn't  left  no  banks,  to  speak  of.  Not  that  'twould' 
matter  to  'im  pers'nally — 'avin'  no  further  use  for  'em." 

Tilda,  confounded  by  this  close  reasoning,  was  about 
to  retreat  with  dignity  under  the  admission  that,  after 
all,  canal-work  gave  no  scope  to  a  genius  such  as  Bill's, 
when  'Dolph  came  barking  to  announce  the  near 
approach  of  Mr.  Mortimer. 

Mr.  Mortimer,  approaching  with  a  gait  modelled 
upon  Henry  Irving's,  was  clearly  in  radiant  mood. 
Almost  he  vaulted  the  stile  between  the  field  and  the 
canal  bank.  Alighting,  he  hailed  the  boat  in  nautical 
language : 

"Ahoy,  Smiles!    What  cheer,  my  hearty?" 

"Gettin'  along  nicely,  sir,"  reported  Mr.  Bossom. 
"Nicely,  but  peckish.    The  same  to  you,  I  'ope." 

"Good,"  was  the  answer.  "Speak  to  the  mariners: 
fall  to  't  yarely,  or  we  run  ourselves  aground.  Bestir, 
bestir!" 

Tilda,  who  for  the  last  minute  or  so  had  been  uncon- 

110 


FREEDOM 

sciously  holding  Arthur  Miles  by  the  hand,  was  aston- 
ished of  a  sudden  to  find  it  trembhng  in  hers. 

"You  mustn't  mind  what  Mr.  Mortimer  says,"  she 
assured  the  child  encouragingly — "it's  on'y  his  way." 

Mr.  Mortimer  stepped  jauntily  across  the  gang- 
plank, declaiming  with  so  much  of  gesture  as  a  heavy 
market-basket  permitted : 

"The  pirates  of  Parga,  who  dwell  by  the  waves, 
And  teach  the  pale  Franks  what  it  is  to  be  slaves. 
Shall  leave  by  the  beach,  Smiles,  the  long    galley  and 
oar 

I  have  done  it.  Smiles.  In  the  words  of  the  old-time 
classical  geometer,  I  have  found  it;  and  as  he  remarked 
on  another  occasion  (I  believe  subsequently),  'Give  me 
where  to  stand,  and  I  will  move  the  Universe.'  His 
precise  words,  if  I  recall  the  original  Greek,  were  Dos 
Pou  Sto — and  the  critical  ear  will  detect  a  manly — er — 
self-reliance  in  the  terse  monosyllables.  In  these  days," 
pursued  Mr.  Mortimer,  setting  down  the  market- 
basket,  unbuttoning  his  furred  overcoat,  extracting  a 
green  and  yellow  bandanna  from  his  breastpocket  and 
mopping  his  heated  brow,  "in  these  days  we  have  lost 
that  self-confidence.  We  are  weary,  disillusioned.  We 
have  ceased  to  expect  gold  at  the  rainbow's  foot.  Speak- 
ing without  disrespect  to  the  poet  Shelley" — here  he 
lifted  his  hat  and  replaced  it — "a  new  Peneus  does  not 
roll  his  fountains  against  the  morning  star,  whatever 
that  precise — er — operation  may  have  been.     But  let 

111 


TRUE  TILDA 

us  honour  the  aspiration,  Smiles,  though  the  chill 
monitor  within  forbid  us  to  endorse  it.  *A  loftier 
Argo'" — Mr.  Mortimer  indicated  the  Success  to  Com- 
merce with  a  sweep  of  the  hand  ; 

"A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main 
Fraught  with  a  later  prize; 
Another  Orpheus — you'll  excuse  the  comparison — sings 
again, 

And  loves,  and  weeps — and  dies." 

"Stanislas,  you  have  not  forgotten  the  eggs,  I  hope?" 
interposed  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Mortimer  from  the  cabin. 

"I  have  not,  my  bud.  Moreover,  as  I  was  just  ex- 
plaining to  our  friend,  I  have  secured  a  Pou  Sio — a 
hall,  my  chick — or  perhaps  it  might  be  defined  more 
precisely  as  a — er — loft.  It  served  formerly — or,  as  the 
poets  would  say,  whilom — as  a  barracks  for  the  Salva- 
tion Army;  in  more  recent  times  as  a  store  for — er — 
superphosphates.  But  it  is  commodious,  and  possesses 
a  side-chamber  which  will  serve  us  admirably  for  a 
green-room  when  the  proprietor — an  affable  person  by 
the  name  of  Tench — has  removed  the  onions  at  present 
drying  on  the  floor;  which  he  has  engaged  to  do." 

"Are  you  tellin'  me,"  inquired  Sam,  "that  you've 
been  and  'ired  the  room  ? " 

"At  the  derisory  charge  of  four-and-six  for  the 
night.  As  a  business  man,  I  believe  in  striking  while 
the  iron  is  hot.  Indeed,  while  we  are  on  the  subject, 
I  may  mention  that  I  have  ordered  the  bills.    Professor 

112 


FREEDOM 

and  Madame  St.  Maur— my  Arabella  will,  I  know,  for- 
give my  reverting  to  the  name  under  which  she  won 
her  maiden  laurels — it  cost  me  a  pang,  my  dear  Smiles, 
to  reflect  that  the  fame  to  be  won  here,  the  honour  of 
having  popularised  HIM,  here  on  the  confines  of  his 
native  Arden,  will  never  be  associated  with  the  name  of 
Mortimer.  Sic  vos  non  vobis,  as  the  Mantuan  has 
poignantly  observed.  But  for  the  sake  of  the  children 
— and,  by  the  way,  how  do  my  bantlings  find  themselves 
this  morning  ?  Tol-lollish,  I  trust  ?— for  the  sake  of  the 
children  it  was  necessary,  as  we  used  to  say  with  the 
Pytchley,  to  obscure  the  scent.  Talking  of  scent,  Smiles, 
it  might  be  advisable — what  with  the  superphosphates 
and  the  onions — to  take  some  counteracting  steps,  which 
your  ingenuity  may  be  able  to  suggest.  The  super- 
phosphates especially  are — er — potent.  And,  by  one 
of  those  coincidences  we  meet,  perhaps,  oftener  than 
we  note,  Mr.  Tench's  initial  is  'S'— standing  for 
Samuel." 

Mr.  Mortimer  extracted  an  egg  from  his  basket  and 
rubbed  it  with  his  bandanna  thoughtfully  before  pass- 
ing it  down  to  his  wife. 

"So  you've  been  an'  ordered  the  bills,  too?"  mur- 
mured Mr.  Bossom.  "And  what  will  the  bills  run  to? 
— if,  as  the  treasurer,  I  may  make  so  bold." 

"To  the  sum  of  five  shillings  precisely,  which  will, 
of  course,  he  hypothecated  as  a  first  charge  upon  our 
takings,  and  which  I  ask  you,  my  dear  Smiles,  as  treas- 

113 


TRUE  TILDA 

urer,  to  debit  to  that  account  in  due  form,  here  and 
now."  It  would  have  been  hard  to  conceive  any  man- 
ner more  impressively  business-like  than  Mr.  Morti- 
mer's as  he  made  this  demand.  "You  will  excuse  my 
putting  it  so  plainly,  Smiles,  but  I  may  venture  a  guess 
that  in  the  matter  of  conducting  a  theatrical  tour  you 
are,  comparatively  speaking,  a  tiro?" 

"I've  got  to  account  to  'Ucks,  if  that's  what  you 
mean,"  Sam  assented. 

"The  bill.  Smiles,  is  the  theatrical  agent's  first 
thought;  the  beginning  which  is  notoriously  half  the 
battle.  For  three-inch  lettering — and  to  that  I  re- 
stricted myself — five  shillings  can  only  be  called  dirt 
cheap.    Listen : 

"Professor  and  Madame  St.  Maur, 
of  the  leading  london  theatres 


Part  I. — With  Voice  and  Lute,  a  Pot-Pourri 
Part  II. — An  Hour  with  the  Best  Dramatists 

THE   whole   to   conclude   WITH   THAT   SIDE- 
SPLITTING duologue  entitled, 

"Courtship  in  the  Rain" 


PASSION   WITH   refinement   AND   MIRTH   WITHOUT 

VULGARITY 


Reserved   Seats,    One   Shilling.        Unreserved,    Sixpence. 
Gallery  {limited),  Threepence  only 

DOORS   OPEN   AT   7.30  ;     TO   COMMENCE   AT  8 
CARRIAGES   AT   HALF-PAST  TEN" 

114 


FREEDOM 

"  Why  carriages  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Bossom. 

"  It's  the  usual  thing,"  answered  Mr.  Mortimer. 

"You  bet  it  isn't,  at  Tizzer's  Green.  Well,  the  first 
job  is  breakfast,  an'  after  breakfast  we'll  get  Old  Ju- 
bilee round  by  the  footbridge  an'  make  shift  to  borrow 
a  cart  down  at  Ibbetson's,  for  the  scenery.  You  didn' 
forget  the  bacon  ?" 

Mr.  Mortimer  unwrapped  a  parcel  of  greasy  paper 
and  exhibited  six  slices. 

"A  Baconian — O  Shakespeare,  forgive!" 

He  said  this  in  a  highly  jocular  manner,  and  accom- 
panied it  with  a  wink  at  Tilda,  who  did  not  under- 
stand the  allusion.  But  again  she  felt  the  child's  hand 
thrill  and  tremble,  and  turned  about,  eyeing  him  curi- 
ously. Her  movement  drew  upon  him  the  Mortimerian 
flow,  ever  ebullient  and  ever  by  trifles  easily  deflected. 

"Yes,  Arthur  Miles — if  I  may  trouble  you  to  pass 
it  down  to  the  cook's  galley — thank  you;  these  eggs, 
too — be  careful  of  them — Yes,  we  are  bound  for  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon,  Shakespeare's  birthplace!"  Again  he 
lifted  and  replaced  his  hat.  "Enviable  boy!  What 
would  young  Stanislas  Mortimer  not  have  given  at 
your  age  to  set  eyes  on  that  Mecca!  Yet,  perchance, 
he  may  claim  that  he  comes,  though  late,  as  no  un- 
worthy votary.  A  Passionate  Pilgrim,  shall  we  say? 
Believe  me,  it  is  in  the  light  of  a  pilgrimage  that  I  re- 
gard this — er — jaunt.  Shall  we  dedicate  it  to  youth, 
and  name  it  Childe  Arthur's  Pilgrimage  ?  " 

115 


TRUE  TILDA 

By  this  time  smoke  was  issuing  in  a  steady  stream 
from  the  stove-pipe  above  the  cabin-top,  and  presently 
from  within  came  the  hiss  and  fragrance  of  bacon  fry- 
ing. Sam  Bossom  had  stepped  ashore,  and  called  to 
the  children  to  help  in  collecting  sticks  and  build  a  fire 
for  the  tea-kettle.  Tilda,  used  though  she  was  to  nomad 
life,  had  never  known  so  delightful  a  picnic.  Only  her 
eyes  wandered  back  apprehensively,  now  and  then,  to 
the  smoke  of  the  great  town.  As  for  Arthur  Miles — 
Childe  Arthur,  as  Mr.  Mortimer  henceforth  insisted  on 
their  calling  him — he  had  apparently  cast  away  all 
dread  of  pursuit.  Once,  inhaling  the  smell  of  the  wood 
fire,  he  even  laughed  aloud — a  strange  laugh,  and  at  its 
close  uncannily  like  a  sob.  Tilda,  watching  him 
quietly,  observed  that  he  trembled,  too — trembled  all 
over — from  time  to  time.  She  observed,  too,  that  this 
happened  when  he  looked  up  from  the  fire  and  the 
kettle;  but  also  that  in  looking  up  he  never  once  looked 
back,  that  his  eyes  always  wandered  along  the  still 
waterway  and  to  the  horizon  ahead.  This  puzzled  her 
completely. 

Breakfast  followed,  and  was  delightful,  though  not 
unaccompanied  by  terrors.  A  barge  hove  in  sight, 
wending  downward  from  Bursfield,  and  the  children 
hid.  It  passed  them,  and  after  ten  minutes  came  a 
couple  from  the  same  direction,  with  two  horses  haul- 
ing at  the  first,  and  the  second  (which  Sam  called  a 
butty-boat)  towed  astern.    Each  boat  had  a  steersman, 

116 


FREEDOM 

and  the  steersman  called  to  Sam  and  asked  for  news  of 
his  young  woman;  whereupon  Sam  called  back,  offer- 
ing to  punch  their  heads  for  twopence.  But  it  was  all 
very  good-natured.  They  passed  on  laughing,  and  the 
children  re-emerged.  The  sun  shone;  the  smoke  of 
the  embers  floated  against  it,  across  the  boat,  on  the 
gentlest  of  breezes;  the  food  was  coarse,  but  they  were 
hungry;  the  water  motionless,  but  Mr.  Mortimer's 
talk  seemed  to  put  a  current  into  it,  calling  them  south- 
ward and  to  high  adventures — southward  where  no 
smoke  was,  and  the  swallows  skimmed  over  the  scented 
watermeads.  Even  the  gaudily-painted  cups  and 
saucers,  which  Mr.  Mortimer  produced  from  a  gaudily- 
painted  cupboard,  made  part  of  the  romance.  Tilda 
had  never  seen  the  like.  They  were  decorated  round 
the  rims  with  bands  of  red  and  green  and  yellow;  the 
very  eggcups  were  similarly  banded;  and  portraits  of 
the  late  Queen  Victoria  and  the  Prince  Consort  decor- 
ated the  cupboard's  two  panels. 

Breakfast  over,  she  helped  Mr.  Mortimer  to  wash 
up,  and  while  she  helped  was  conscious  of  a  new  and 
uncomfortable  feeling,  of  which  she  could  make  no 
account  with  herself.  It  was  not  the  stuffiness  of  the 
cabin  that  oppressed  her;  nor  the  dread  of  pursuit;  nor 
anxiety  for  Arthur  Miles,  lest  he  should  run  off  and  fall 
into  mischief.  By  stooping  a  little  she  could  keep  him 
in  view,  for  he  had  settled  himself  on  the  after-deck, 
and  was  playing  with  'Dolph — or,  rather,  was  feeling 

117 


TRUE  TILDA 

'Dolph's  ears  and  paws  in  a  wondering  fashion,  as  one 
to  whom  even  a  dog  was  something  new  and  marvellous ; 
and  'Dolph,  stretched  on  his  side  in  the  sunshine,  was 
undergoing  the  inspection  with  great  complaisance. 
No ;  the  cause  of  her  restlessness  was  yet  to  seek. 

She  went  out  and  sat  upon  the  cabin  step  for  a  while, 
deep  in  thought,  her  eyes  fixed  on  Sam  Bossom,  who, 
just  beyond  the  cabin  roof,  was  stooping  over  the  well 
and  untying  its  tarpaulins.  By  and  by  she  sprang  to 
her  feet  and  walked  forward  to  him. 

"Mr.  Bossom,"  she  said  with  decision,  "I  know 
what's  the  matter  with  me." 

"Then,"  answered  Sam,  "you're  luckier  than  most 
people." 

"I  want  a  wash." 

"Do  you,  now?  Well,  as  to  that,  o'  course  you're  the 
best  judge;  but  I  'adn't  noticed  it." 

"You  wouldn't,  'ardly,"  said  Tilda,  "seein'  as  I  'ad 
one  on'y  yestiddy.  But  that's  the  worst  of  'orspitals. 
They  get  you  inside,  an'  a'most  before  you  know  where 
you  are,  they've  set  up  a  'abit.  I  dessay  it'll  wear  off, 
all  right;  but  oh,  Mr.  Bossom " 

"Would  you  mind  callin'  me  Sam?  It's  more 
ushual." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Sam,  this  mornin'  I'm  feelin'  it  all  over. 
If  I  got  a  pailful  out  o'  the  canal,  now  ?" 

"I  wouldn'  recommend  it — not  'ereabouts."  Sam, 
eyeing  her  with  his  head  cocked  slightly  aside,  spoke 

118 


FREEDOM 

gently  as  one  coaxing  a  victim  of  the  drink  habit. 
"But,  as  it  'appens,  a  furlong  this  side  of  Ibbetson's 
you'll  find  the  very  place.  Take  Arthur  Miles  along 
with  you.  He'll  be  thankful  for  it,  later  on — an'  I'll 
loan  you  a  cake  o'  soap." 


119 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   FOUR  DIAMONDS 

"  Where  the  hazel  bank  is  steepest, 
Where  the  shadow  falls  the  deepest, 
Where  the  clustering  nuts  fall  free. 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me." — James  Hogg. 

The  spot  was  a  hollow  between  two  grassy  meadows, 
where  a  brook  came  winding  with  a  gentle  fall,  under 
coverts  of  hazel,  willow  and  alder,  to  feed  the  canal. 
It  was  a  quite  diminutive  brook,  and  its  inflow,  by  the 
wharf  known  as  Ibbetson's,  troubled  the  stagnant  canal 
water  for  a  very  short  distance.  But  it  availed,  a  mile 
above,  to  turn  a  mill,  and — a  marvel  in  this  country  of 
factories — it  had  escaped  pollution.  Below  the  mill- 
dam  it  hurried  down  a  pretty  steep  declivity,  dodging 
its  channel  from  side  to  side,  but  always  undercutting 
the  bank  on  one  side,  while  on  the  other  it  left  miniature 
creeks  or  shoals  and  spits  where  the  minnows  played 
and  the  water-flies  dried  their  wings  on  the  warm  peb- 
bles; always,  save  that  twice  or  thrice  before  finding 
its  outlet  it  paused  below  one  of  these  pebbly  spits  to 
widen  and  deepen  itself  into  a  pool  where  it  was  odds 
that  the  sun,  slanting  through  the  bushes,  showed  a 
brown  trout  lurking. 

120 


THE  FOUR  DIAMONDS 

By  such  a  pool — but  they  had  scared  away  the  trout 
— our  two  children  were  busy.  Tilda,  her  ablutions 
over,  had  handed  the  cake  of  soap  to  Arthur  Miles, 
scrambled  out  on  the  deeper  side,  and  ensconced  her- 
self in  the  fork  of  an  overhanging  hazel-mote;  where 
having  reached  for  a  cluster  of  nuts  and  cracked  them, 
she  sat  and  munched,  with  petticoat  dripping  and  bare 
legs  dangling  over  the  pool. 

"Be  sure  you  don't  fergit  be'ind  the  ears,"  she  ad- 
monished the  boy.  "You  may  think  you're  on'y  a 
small  boy  an'  nobody's  goin'  to  search  yer  corners;  but 
back  at  the  Good  Samaritan  there  was  a  tex'  nailed  up 
— Thou  Gawd  seest  me;  and  Sister  said  'E  was  most 
partic'lar  just  in  the  httle  places  you  wouldn't  think." 

By  her  orders  the  boy  had  stripped  off  shirt  and 
stockings,  and  stood  now  almost  knee-deep  in  the 
water,  lathering  his  hair  and  face  and  neck  and  shoul- 
ders with  vigour.  Tilda  observed  that  his  skin  was 
delicately  fair,  and  white.  She  had  never  seen  a  more 
beautiful  boy.  But  he  was  slender,  and  would  need 
mothering. 

"You're  comin'  to  it  nicely,"  she  called  down  to 
him.  "  It  feels  funny  to  start  with,  but  in  the  end  you'll 
a'most  get  to  like  it." 

"1(^0  like  it." 

She  considered  for  a  while. 

"If  that's  so,"  she  said,  "you'd  better  strip  all  over 
an*  'ave  done  with  it.    I  was  bringin'  you  to  it  gradual." 

121 


TRUE  TILDA 

"But " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  I  knows  my  manners.  Be 
quick  as  you  can,  so's  not  to  catch  cold,  an'  I'll  take 
a  stroll  up  the  bank  an'  give  a  call  if  any  one's  comin'." 

She  scrambled  back  to  firm  ground  and  set  off  for 
a  saunter  up  stream,  pausing  here  to  reach  for  a  nut, 
there  to  pluck  a  ripe  blackberry,  and  again  to  examine 
a  tangle  of  bryony,  or  the  deep-red  fruit  of  the  honey- 
suckle; for  almost  all  her  waking  life  had  been  spent 
in  towns  among  crowds,  and  these  things  were  new 
and  strange  to  her.  She  met  no  one  on  her  way  until, 
where  the  stream  twisted  between  a  double  fold  of 
green  pasture  slopes,  she  came  to  the  mill — a  tall 
rickety  building,  with  a  tiled  roof  that  time  had  dark- 
ened and  greened  with  lichens,  and  a  tall  wheel  turning 
slowly  in  a  splash  of  water,  and  bright  water  dancing 
over  a  weir  below.  In  the  doorway  leaned  a  middle- 
aged  man,  powdered  all  over  with  white,  even  to  the 
eyelids.  He  caught  sight  of  her,  and  she  was  afraid  he 
would  be  angry,  and  warn  her  off  for  trespassing;  but 
he  nodded  and  called  out  something  in  a  friendly 
manner — "Good  day,"  perhaps.  She  could  not  hear 
the  words  for  the  hum  of  the  weir  and  the  roaring  of 
the  machinery  within  the  building. 

It  was  time  to  retrace  her  steps,  and  she  went  back 
leisurably,  peering  for  trout  and  plucking  on  the  way 
a  trail  of  the  bryony,  berried  with  orange  and  scarlet 
and  yellow  and  palest  green,  to  exhibit  to  Arthur  Miles. 

122 


THE  FOUR  DIAMONDS 

She  found  him  seated  on  the  near  bank,  close  beside 
her  hazel-mote.  He  did  not  hear  her  barefooted 
approach,  being  absorbed  in  the  movements  of  a  wag- 
tail that  had  come  down  to  the  pebbly  spit  for  its 
bath;  and  Tilda  started  scolding  forthwith.  For  he 
sat  there  naked  to  the  waist,  with  his  shirt  spread  to 
dry  on  the  grass.  He  had  given  it  a  thorough  soaping, 
and  washed  it  and  wrung  it  out:  his  stockings,  too. 

"You'll  catch  yer  death!"  threatened  Tilda. 

But  he  was  not  shivering — so  blandly  fell  the  sun's 
rays,  and  so  gently  played  the  breeze. 

"  I  can't  make  you  out,"  she  confessed.  "  First  when 
I  came  on  yer — an'  that  was  on'y  yestiddy — you  was 
like  a  thing  afraid  o'  yer  own  shadder.  An'  now  you 
don't  appear  to  mind  nothin' — not  even  the  chance  o' 
bein'  found  an'  took  back." 

The  boy  drew  a  long  breath, 

"You're  shakin'  with  cold,  though.  There!  What 
did  I  tell  yer?"  But  a  moment  later  she  owned  herself 
mistaken.    He  was  not  cold  at  all. 

"It's  all  so — so  good,"  he  murmured,  more  to  him- 
self than  to  her. 

"Wliat'sgood?" 

He  reached  out  for  the  trail  of  bryony  in  her  lap  and 
fingered  it  wonderingly,  without  speaking  for  a  while. 
Then,  lifting  his  hand,  he  laid  it  for  a  moment  against 
her  upper  arm — the  lightest  touch — no  more. 

"You,"  he  said.    "You — and  everything." 

123 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Of  all  the  queer  boys — "  she  began,  and  broke  off 
with  a  catch  of  the  breath.    "Hulloa!" 

The  boy  looked  up  to  see  her  eyes  fixed,  round  and 
wide,  on  his  naked  shoulder. 

"What's  that  mark  you  got  there?"  she  demanded. 

"This?"  He  put  up  a  hand  to  it.  "I  don't  know. 
I've  wondered  sometimes " 

"  But  you  must  'ave  come  by  it  some'ow.  Can't  you 
remember?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  It  has  been  there  always.  And  yet  I  couldn't  have 
been  born  with  it." 

"  'Course  yer  couldn',"  she  agreed.  For  this  was  the 
mark: 

<xxx> 

pencilled  in  thin  lines  of  red  a  little  below  the  right 
shoulder,  across  the  width  of  the  deltoid  muscle,  and 
in  figures  about  half  an  inch  tall.  "  'Course  yer  couldn'," 
she  repeated.  "That's  tatooin',  if  ever  there  was  tat- 
tooin';  an',  what's  more,"  she  went  on,  nodding  her 
head  with  great  positiveness,  "  I  know  who  done  it, 
leastways  I  know  part  of  'is  name.  .  .  .  Don't  stare, 
now;  lemme  think.  .  .  .  Yes,  it's  plain  as  plain. 
'  Four  di'monds,'  she  said ;  an'  di'monds  they  are,  same 
as  on  a  pack  o'  cards— me  all  the  time  thinkin'  of  them 
as  the  ladies  wear  on  their  fingers.  But  'on  his  coat,' 
she  said;  nothin'  about  yer  shoulder." 

124 


THE  FOUR  DIAMONDS 

" '  She '  ?    Who  was  '  she '  ?  "  asked  the  boy. 

"Never  you  mind,"  said  Tilda  hurriedly.  " But  him 
as  done  it  was  called  Ned.  Now  try  to  think  if  you 
ever  came  across  a  party  as  was  called  Ned  ?" 

"There  was  a  boy  called  Ned  at  Holy  Innocents; 
but  he  died  in  the  time  we  all  had  sore  throats — and, 
besides,  he  was  the  youngest  of  us.  I  don't  remember 
any  other." 

"Any  sailor-man,  then?  It's  mostly  sailors  that 
know  about  tattooin'." 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  answered  promptly,  to  her  surprise. 
"There  were  lots  of  sailors — five  or  six,  I  think.  They 
had  long  glasses,  and  used  to  watch  the  sea.  And  one 
played  music  on  a  thing  that  went  so." 

He  brought  his  hands  together,  drew  them  wide,  and 
brought  them  together  again — the  palms  open. 

"That  would  be  a  concertina,"  nodded  Tilda,  "or 
elst  an  accordion.  Now  try  to  think,  becos'  all  this  is 
very  important.  .  .  .  Where  was  this  place  ?  and  what 
like  was  it?" 

He  considered  for  a  while,  frowning  to  help  his 
memory. 

"There  was  a  line  of  white  houses,  and  one  had  red 
flowers  in  the  window  .  .  .  and  a  pole,  with  flags  on 
it  .  .  .  and  ships  passing  .  .  .  and  from  the  houses  a 
path  went  down  to  the  sea.  I  remember  quite  well 
what  it  was  like  down  there  .  .  .  with  waves  coming 
in,  but  not  reaching  to  us,  and  sand  where  I  played, 

125 


TRUE  TILDA 

and  rocks,  and  pools  full  of  shells  and  brown  flowers. 
There  were  shells,  too,  on  the  rocks,  with  live  things 
inside — though  they  never  moved.  I  don't  think  I 
knew  their  name;  but  I  know  it  now.  They  were 
called  'scammels.'" 

"I've  ate  limpets,"  said  Tilda;  "limpets  an'  whelks. 
But  I  never  'card  o'  scammels.  An'  you  don't  remem- 
ber the  name  o'  this  place?" 

"It  must  have  been  the  Island,"  said  the  boy  slowly. 

"Wot  Island?  Island's  a  sort  o'  place,  but  no  place 
in  partic'lar." 

"I  don't  know.  ...  It  must  have  been  the  Island, 
though." 

"Now  listen.  Did  you  ever  'appen  to  'ear  tell  of 
'Olmness?" 

She  asked  it  eagerly,  watching  his  face.  But  it  gave 
no  answer  to  her  hopes.  His  eyes  were  dreamy.  The 
word,  if  it  struck  at  all  on  his  hearing,  struck  dully. 

"I  don't  see  that  the  name  matters,"  he  said  after 
a  long  pause,  "so  long  as  it's  the  Island.  We're  going 
there,  and  we  shall  find  out  all  about  it  when  we  get  to 
Stratford." 

"Shall  we?"  asked  Tilda,  considerably  astonished. 
"But^%,  in  the  world?" 

"Because  .  .  .  didn't  you  hear  Mr.  Mortimer  say 
that  Shakespeare  was  born  there?" 

"  I  did,"  said  Tilda.    "  'Ow's  that  goin'  to  'elp  us  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  the  boy  confessed,  dragging  a  book 

126 


THE  FOUR  DIAMONDS 

from  his  pocket.  It  was  a  ragged  copy  of  the  "  Globe" 
Shakespeare,  lacking  its  covers  and  smeared  with  dirt 
and  blacking.    "But  he  knows  all  about  the  Island." 

"So  that,"  said  Tilda,  "is  what  'urt  me  in  the  night! 
It  made  my  ribs  all  sore.  I  f ergot  the  book,  an'  thought 
you  must  be  sufferin'  from  some  kind  o'  growth;  but 
didn't  like  to  arsk  till  I  knew  yer  better — deformed 
folk  bein'  mostly  touchy  about  it.  When  you  stripped 
jus'  now,  an'  nothin'  the  matter,  it  puzzled  me  more  'n 
ever.  'Ere — show  me  where  'e  tells  about  it,"  she  de- 
manded, taking  the  volume  and  opening  it  on  her  lap. 

"It's  all  at  the  beginning,  and  he  calls  it  The  Tem- 
pest. .  .  .  But  it  will  take  you  ever  so  long  to  find  out. 
There  was  a  ship  wrecked,  with  a  wicked  duke  on 
board,  and  he  thought  his  son  was  drowned,  but  really 
it  was  all  brought  about  by  magic.  ...  In  the  book 
it's  mostly  names  and  speeches,  and  you  only  pick  up 
here  and  there  what  the  Island  was  like." 

"But  what  piakes  you  sure  it's  your  Island  ?" 

"You  wait  till  we  get  to  Stratford  and  ask  him," 
said  the  boy,  nodding,  bright  and  confident. 

"Arsk  'oo?  Shakespeare?  Sakes  alive,  child! 
Don't  yer  know  'e's  been  dead  these  'undreds  o'  years  ?" 

"Has  he?"  His  face  fell,  but  after  a  moment  grew 
cheerful  again.  "But  that  needn't  matter.  There 
must  be  heaps  of  people  left  to  tell  us  about  it." 

Tilda  closed  the  book.  She  had  learnt  a  little,  but 
had  been  disappointed  in  more.     She  felt  desperately 

127 


TRUE  TILDA 

sorry  for  the  child  with  this  craze  in  his  head  about  an 
Island.  She  had  a  suspicion  that  the  memories  he  re- 
lated were  all  mixed  up  with  fictions  from  the  play.  As 
she  put  it  herself,  "  'E  don't  mean  to  kid,  but  'e  can't 
'elp  'isself."  But  there  was  one  question  she  had 
omitted  and  must  yet  ask. 

"You  said,  jus'  now,  you  used  to  play  by  the  sea, 
somewheres  beneath  that  line  o'  white  houses  you  was 
tellin'  of.  Well,  you  couldn't  a-got  down  there  on  your 
own,  at  that  age — could  yer,  now?  W'ich  means  you 
must  a-been  carried." 

"I  suppose  so." 

"No  supposin'  about  it.  You  must  a-been.  Wot's 
more,  you  talked  about  the  waves  comin'  in  an'  not 
reachin' — '  us,' you  said.  'Oo  was  it  with  yer  ?  Think 
now!    Man  or  woman?" 

"A  woman,"  he  answered  after  a  pause,  knitting 
his  brows. 

"Wot  like?" 

Then  happened  something  for  which — so  quiet  his 
words  had  been — Tilda  was  in  no  wise  prepared.  He 
turned  his  eyes  on  her,  and  they  were  as  the  eyes  of  a 
child  bom  blind;  blank,  yet  they  sought;  tortured,  yet 
dry  of  tears.  His  head  was  tilted  back,  and  a  little  side- 
ways. So  may  you  see  an  infant's  as  he  nuzzles  to  his 
mother's  breast.  The  two  hands  seemed  to  grope 
for  a  moment,  then  fell  limp  at  his  side. 

"Oh,  'ush!"  besought  Tilda,  though  in  fact  he  had 

128 


THE  FOUR  DIAMONDS 

uttered  no  sound.  "  'Ush,  an'  put  on  your  shirt,  an'  come 
'ome!  We'll  get  Mrs.  Mortimer  to  dry  it  off  by  the  stove." 

She  helped  him  on  with  it,  took  him  by  the  hand, 
and  led  him  back  unresisting. 

They  reached  the  canal  bank  in  time  to  see  Sam 
Bossom  leading  Old  Jubilee  down  the  towpath,  on  his 
way  to  borrow  a  cart  at  Ibbetson's.  And  'Dolph — 
whom  Tilda  had  left  with  strict  orders  to  remain  on 
board — no  sooner  caught  sight  of  the  children  than  he 
leapt  ashore  and  came  cringing. 

The  dog  appeared  to  be  in  mortal  terror;  a  terror  at 
which  the  children  no  longer  wondered  as  they  drew 
near  the  boat.  Terrible  sounds  issued  from  the  cabin 
— cries  of  a  woman  imploring  mercy,  fierce  guttural 
oaths  of  a  man  determined  to  grant  none. 

"Good  Lord!"  exclaimed  Tilda,  gripping  Arthur 
Miles  more  tightly  by  the  hand  and  hurrying  him  into 
a  run.    "Whatever's  taken  the  couple?" 

She  paused  at  the  gangway  and  listened,  peering 
forward. 

"Oh,  banish  me,  my  lord,  but  kill  me  not!"  wailed 
the  voice  of  Mrs.  Mortimer. 

"Down,  base  one!"  shouted  her  husband's. 

"Kill  me  to-morrow;  let  me  live  to-night!" 

"Nay,  if  you  strive — a  little  more  stress,  dear,  on 
'to-night,'  if  I  may  suggest — Nay,  if  you  strive !" 

"Shall  we  take  it  again,  Stanislas  ?  You  used  to  take 
the  pillow  at 'Kill  me  not.'" 

129 


TRUE  TILDA 

"I  believe  I  did,  my  bud.  We  are  rusty — a  trifle 
rusty — the  both  of  us." 

"Kill  me  to-morrow;  let  me  live — "  entreated  Mrs. 
Mortimer. 

"What's  all  this,  you  two?"  demanded  Tilda,  spring- 
ing down  the  cabin  steps  and  hurling  herself  between 
them. 

"Hullo!  Come  in!"  answered  Mr.  Mortimer  ge- 
nially. "This?  Well,  I  hope  it  is  an  intellectual  treat. 
I  have  always  looked  upon  Mrs.  Mortimer's  Desdemona 
as  such,  even  at  rehearsal ' 


130 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   "  STRATFORD-ON-AVON  " 

"Day  after  day,  day  after  day 
We  stuck." 
— Coleridge,  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner. 

"Well,  and  'ow  did  the  performance  go  off?" 
When  Tilda  awoke  at  seven  o'clock  next  morning, 
the  Success  to  Commerce  had  made  three  good  miles  in 
the  cool  of  the  dawn,  and  come  to  anchor  again  (so  to 
speak)  outside  the  gates  of  Knowsley  top  lock,  where, 
as  Sam  Bossom  explained  later,  the  canal  began  to 
drop  from  its  summit  level.  Six  locks,  set  pretty  close 
together,  here  formed  a  stairway  for  its  descent,  and 
Sam  would  hear  no  word  of  breakfast  until  they  had 
navigated  the  whole  flight. 

The  work  was  laborious,  and  cost  him  the  best  part 
of  an  hour.  For  he  had  to  open  and  shut  each  pair  of 
gates  single-handed,  using  a  large  iron  key  to  lift  and 
close  the  sluices;  and,  moreover,  Mr,  Mortimer,  though 
he  did  his  best,  was  inexpert  at  guiding  the  boat  into 
the  lock-chamber  and  handling  her  when  there.  A 
dozen  times  Sam  had  to  call  to  him  to  haul  closer  down 
toward  the  bottom  gates  and  avoid  fouling  his  rudder. 

131 


TRUE  TILDA 

The  children  watched  the  whole  operation  from 
shore,  now  and  then  lending  their  small  weight  to  push 
open  the  long  gate-beams.  'Dolph,  too,  watched  from 
shore;  suspiciously  at  first,  afterward  with  a  studied 
air  of  boredom,  which  he  relieved  by  affecting,  when- 
ever the  heel  of  a  stern-post  squeaked  in  its  quoin,  to 
mistake  it  for  a  rat— an  excuse  for  aimless  snuffing, 
whining  and  barking.  And  Mrs.  Mortimer  looked  on 
from  the  well  by  the  cabin  door,  saucepan  in  hand, 
prepared  to  cook  at  the  shortest  notice.  It  was  fascinat- 
ing to  see  her,  at  first  in  the  almost  brimming  lock,  ma- 
jestically erect  (she  was  a  regal  figure), "challenging  the 
horizon  with  a  gaze  at  once  proud,  prescient  of  mar- 
tyrdom, and  prepared;  and  then,  as  Sam  opened  the 
sluices,  to  watch  her  descend,  inch  by  inch,  into  the 
dark  lock-chamber.  Each  time  this  happened  Mr. 
Mortimer  exhorted  her— " Courage,  my  heart's  best!" 
— and  she  made  answer  each  time,  "Nay,  Stanislas, 
I  have  no  terrors." 

Mr.  Mortimer,  at  the  fifth  lock,  left  Old  Jubilee  and 
walked  around  to  remark  to  Tilda  that  on  the  boards 
some  such  apparatus — "if  it  could  be  contrived  at  mod- 
erate expense" — would  be  remarkably  effective  in  the 
drowning  scene  of  The  Colleen  Bawn;  or,  in  the  legiti- 
mate drama,  for  the  descent  of  Faustus  into  hell;  "or, 
by  means  of  a  gauze  transparency,  the  death  of  Ophelia 
might  be  indicated.  I  mention  Ophelia  because  it  was 
in  that  part  my  Arabella  won  what — if  the  expression 

132 


THE  "STRATFORD-ON-AVON" 

may  be  used  without  impropriety — I  will  term  her 
spurs.  I  am  given  to  understand,  however,"  added 
Mr.  Mortimer,  "that  the  apparatus  requires  a  consid- 
erable reservoir,  and  a  reservoir  of  any  size  is  only  com- 
patible with  fixity  of  tenure.  An  Ishmsel — a  wanderer 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth — buffeted  this  way  and  that 
by  the  chill  blast  of  man's  ingratitude,  more  keenly 
toothed  (as  our  divine  Shakespeare  observed)  than  win- 
ter's actual  storm — but  this  by  the  way;  it  is  not  mine 
to  anticipate  more  stable  fortune,  but  rather  to  say 
with  Lear: 

"'Blow,  winds,  and  crack  your  cheeks  1' 

I  merely  drop  the  suggestion — and  I  pass  on." 

He  folded  his  arms  and  passed  on.  That  is  to  say, 
he  strode  off  in  a  hurry  at  a  summons  from  Sara  to 
stand  by  and  pole  the  boat  clear  as  the  lower  lock-gates 
were  opened. 

Somehow  Tilda  divined  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer were  in  high  spirits  this  morning,  and  it  was  with 
reasonable  confidence  that,  after  they  had  moored  be- 
low locks  and  breakfasted,  she  sought  Sam — who  had 
withdrawn  to  the  bows  with  his  account  book — and  in- 
quired how  the  performance  had  gone  off. 

"There  was  a  small  misunderstandin'  at  the  close," 
he  answered,  looking  up  and  pausing  to  moisten  the 
lead  of  his  pencil,  "owin'  to  what  the  bills  said  about 
carriages  at  ten-thirty.     Which  the  people  at  Tizzer's 

133 


TRUE  TILDA 

Green  took  it  that  carriages  was  to  be  part  of  the  show, 
an'  every  one  to  be  taken  'ome  Hke  a  lord.  There  was  a 
man  in  the  gallery,  which  is  otherwise  back  seats  at 
threppence,  got  up  an'  said  he'd  a-come  on  that  con- 
track,  an'  no  other.  Mortimer  made  'im  a  speech,  and 
when  that  wouldn'  do  I  copped  'im  on  the  back  o'  the 
neck." 

"An'  after  that,  I  s'pose,  there  was   free  fight?" 

"No,"  said  Sam;  "you'd  be  surprised  how  quiet  *e 
took  it.    'E  was  unconscious." 

She  eyed  him  thoughtfully. 

"It  don't  seem  like  you,  neither,"  she  said,  "to strike 
a  man  so  'ard,  first  blow." 

"You're  right  there;  it  ain't  like  me,  an'  I  felt  sorry 
for  the  fella'.    But  I  'ad  to  relieve  my  feelin's." 

"What  was  the  matter  with  yer  feelin's?" 

"'Arrowed — fairly  'arrowed."  Sam  shot  an  uneasy 
glance  aft  towards  the  cabin-top  where  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Mortimer  sat  amicably  side  by  side,  he  conning  a  part 
while  she  mended  a  broken  string  of  her  guitar.  Be- 
yond them,  stretched  on  the  afterdeck  with  'Dolph  for 
company,  Arthur  Miles  leaned  over  the  gunwale,  appar- 
ently studying  the  boat's  reflection  in  the  water.  "  Be- 
tween you  an'  me,"  Sam  confessed,  "I  can't  get  no 
grip  on  play-actors;  an'  I'm  sorry  I  ever  took  up  with 
'em."  He  consulted  his  accounts.  "He  cleared  three 
pound  twelve  an'  nine  las'  night — but  'ow  ?  That  Mor- 
timer carried  on  something  'ateful.    There  was  'is  wife 

134 


THE  "STRATFORD-ON-AVON" 

— you  wouldn'  think  it  in  ordinary  life,  but,  dressed  up, 
she  goes  to  your  'eart;  an'  she  wore,  first  an'  last,  more 
dresses  than  you  could  count.  First  of  all  she  'it  a 
little  tambourine,  an'  said  she  was  a  gipsy  maid. 
'I'm  a  narch  little  gipsy,'  she  said,  'an'  I  never  gets 
tipsy' " 

"Why^/ioM^she?" 

'"But  I  laugh  an'  play,  she  said,  'the  whole  o'  the 
day,  such  a  nartless  life  is  mine,  ha,  ha!'  which  wasn' 
none  of  it  true,  except  about  the  drink,  but  you  could 
see  she  only  done  it  to  make  'erself  pleasant.  An'  then 
she  told  us  'ow  when  they  rang  a  bell  somebody  was 
goin'  to  put  Mortimer  to  death,  an'  'ow  she  stopped 
that  by  climbin'  up  to  the  bell  and  'anging  on  to  the 
clapper.  Then  in  came  Mortimer  an'  sang  a  song  with 
'er — as  well  'e  might — about  'is  true  love  'avin'  'is  'eart 
an'  'is  'avin'  'ers,  an'  every  one  clappin'  an  stampin'  an' 
ancorein'  in  the  best  of  tempers.  Well,  an'  what  does 
the  man  do,  after  an  interval  o'  five  minutes,  but  dress 
hisself  up  in  black  an'  call  'er  names  for  'avin'  married 
his  uncle?  This  was  too  much  for  the  back  seats,  an' 
some  o'  them  told  'im  to  go  'ome  an'  boil  'is  'ead. 
But  it  'ad  no  effect;  for  he  only  got  worse,  till  he  ended 
up  by  blackin'  'is  face  an'  smotherin'  'er  with  a  pillow 
for  something  quite  different.  After  that  he  got  better, 
an'  they  ended  up  by  playin'  a  thing  that  made  every- 
body laugh.  I  didn'  hear  it,  but  took  a  walk  outside  to 
blow  off  steam,  an'  only  came  back  just  as  the  fuss 

135 


TRUE  TILDA 

began  about  the  carriages.  Fact  is,  missie,  I  can't  abear 
to  see  a  woman  used  abuseful." 

"That's  because  you're  in  love,"  said  Tilda.  "But, 
if  you'll  listen  to  me,  women  ain't  always  what  you 
take  'em  for." 

"Ain't  they?"  he  queried.  "I'd  be  sorry  to  believe 
that;  though  'twould  be  'elpful,  I  don't  mind  tellin' 
you." 

"I've  known  cases — that  is,  if  you  want  to  be 
cured " 

"I  do,  an'  I  don't,"  he  groaned.  But  it  was  clear 
that  in  the  main  he  did  not;  for  he  changed  the  sub- 
ject hastily.  "See  'ere,  would  you  mind  takin'  'old  o' 
the  book  an'  checkin'  while  I  counts  out  the  money. 
Total  takin's — four,  three,  three — less  'ire  of  'all,  four- 


an  -SIX 


"I  can  read  figures  an'  print,"  owned  Tilda,  "but 
'andwri ting's  too  much  for  me;  an'  yours,  I  dare  say, 
isn'  none  o'  the  best." 

"I've  improved  it  a  lot  at  the  night  school.  But 
what  is  it  puzzlin'  you?"  he  asked,  looking  up  as  he 
counted. 

She  held  out  the  book,  but  not  as  he  had  handed  it. 
The  light  breeze  had  blown  over  two  or  three  of  its 
leaves,  covering  the  page  of  accounts. 

"Oh,  that?"  he  stammered,  and  a  blush  spread  to 
his  ears.    "I  didn'  mean  you  to  see " 

"What  is  it?" 

136 


THE  "STRATFORD-ON-AVON" 

"Well, — it's  poetry,  if  you  must  know.  Leastways 
it's  meant  to  be  potery.    I  make  it  sometimes." 

"Why?" 

"To  relieve  my  feelin's." 

"Tears  to  me  your  feelin's  want  a  deal  o'  relievin', 
one  way  an'  another.    Read  me  some." 

"You're  sure  you  won't  laugh?" 

"Bless  the  man!  'Ow  can  I  tell  till  I've  'eard  it? 
Is  it  meant  to  be  funny?" 

"No." 

"Well,  then,  I'm  not  likely  to  laugh.  It  don't  come 
easy  to  me,  any'ow:  I  seen  too  many  clowns." 

She  handed  him  the  book.  He  chose  a  poem,  con- 
quered his  diflBdence,  and  began : 

"  *  Stratford-on-Avon,  Stratford-on-Avon — 
My  heart  is  full  of  woe: 
Formerly,  once  upon  a  time 
It  was  not  ever  so. 

"  '  The  love  that  then  I  faltered 
I  now  am  forced  to  stifle; 
For  the  case  is  completely  altered 
And  I  wish  I  had  a  rifle. 

"  '  I  wish  I  was  wrecked 
Like  Robinson  Crusoe, 
But  you  cannot  expect 
A  canal-boat  to  do  so.' 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  explain,  though?"  he  suggested, 
breaking  off. 

137 


TRUE  TILDA 

"If  you  don't  mind." 

"You  see  I  got  a  brother — a  nelder  brother,  an'  by 
name  'Enery;  an'  last  year  he  went  for  a  miner  in 
South  Africa,  at  a  place  that  I  can't  neither  spell  nor  pro- 
nounce till  it  winds  up  with  'bosh.'  So  we'll  call  it  Bosh." 

"Right-o!  But  why  did  he  go  for  that  miner  ?  To 
relieve  'is  feelin's?" 

"You  don't  understand.  He  went  out  as  a  miner, 
havin'  been  a  pit-hand  at  the  Blackstone  Colliery, 
north  o'  Bursfield.  Well,  one  week-end— about  a 
month  before  he  started— he  took  a  noliday  an'  went  a 
trip  with  me  to  Stratford  aboard  this  very  boat.  Which 
for  six  months  past  I'd  'ad  a  neye  upon  a  girl  in  Strat- 
ford.   She  was  a  General " 

"Salvation  Army?" 

" — A  Cook-general,  in  a  very  respectable  'ouse'old 
—a  publican's,  at  the  'Four  Alls'  by  Binton  Bridges. 
Me  bein'  shy — as  you  may  'ave  noticed — I  'adn't,  as 
you  might  say,  put  it  to  'er;  an'  likewise  until  the  matter 
was  settled  I  didn'  like  to  tell  'Enery.  But  I  interjuced 
'im— the  same  bein'  'er  Sunday  out;  an'  afterward, 
when  he  called  'er  a  monstrous  fine  girl,  I  felt  as  'appy 
as  if  he'd  given  me  ten  shillin'.  Which  only  proves," 
Sam  commented  bitterly,  "what  I  say  in  the  next  verse: 

"  *  I'd  rather  be  in  prison 

Than  in  this  earthly  dwellin', 
Where  nothin'  is  but  it  isn' — 

An'  there  ain't  no  means  of  tellin'l' 

138 


THE  "STRATFORD-ON-AVON" 

— which  when,  the  night  before  he  started,  he  comes  to 
me  an'  says  that  he  an'  Mary  'ave  made  a  match  of  it, 
an'  would  I  mind  keepin'  an  eye  on  'er  an'  writin'  regi- 
lar  to  say  'ow  she  was  gettin'  on,  it  fair  knocked  me 
out." 

"You  never  told  'im?" 

"I  didn'  like  to.  To  start  with  'e  was  always  my 
fav'rite  brother,  an'  I  couldn'  bear  his  startin'  in  low 
sperits  an'  South  Africa  such  a  distance  off;  beside 
which,  I  told  mysel',  the  girl  must  surely  know  'er  own 
mind.  So  now  you  know,"  concluded  Sam,  "what 
I  means  by  the  nex'  verse: 

"  *Stratford-on-Avon,  Stratford-on-Avon — 
My  true  love  she  is  false; 
I'd  rather  not  go  to  Stratford-on-Avon 
If  I  could  go  anywheres  else.'" 

"But  you  promised  to  keep  an  eye  on  her." 

"'Enery  'ears  from  me  regilar  "  said  Sam  eva- 
sively. 

"If  you  don't  pay  'er  no  visits,"  Tilda  insisted,  "the 
more  you  write  the  more  you  must  be  tellin'  lies;  an' 
that's  not  fair  to  'Enery." 

Sam  considered  this  for  a  while,  and  ended  by 
drawing  a  folded  scrap  of  paper  from  his  trouser- 
pocket. 

"I  don't  tell  no  more  than  can't  be  'elped,  missie. 
You  just  list'n  to  this." 

139 


TRUE  TILDA 
He  read: 

Dear  Brother  'Enery — This  comes  'opin'  to  find  you 
well  as  it  leaves  me  at  Stratford.  M.  sends  her  love,  an' 
you  will  be  pleased  to  'ear  she  grows  beautif  uller  every  day 
an'  in  character  likewise.  It  do  seem  to  me  this  world  is  a 
better  place  for  containin'  of  her;  an'  a  man  ought  to  be 
'appy,  dear  'Enery,  when  you  can  call  'er  mine " 

"That  don't  seem  right  to  me  some'ow,"  commented 
Tilda. 

Sam  scratched  his  head. 

"What's  wrong  with  it?" 

"'Pears  to  me  it  ought  to  be  'yours' — 'When  you 
can  call  her  yours.'" 

"I  don't  like  that  neither,  not  altogether.  S'pose  we 
scratch  it  out  an'  say,  'A  man  ought  to  be  'appy  when 
'e  can  call  'er  'isn '  ?  That's  what  schoolmaster  calls  the 
third  person." 

"There  didn'  ought  to  be  no  third  person  about  it," 
said  Tilda  severely;  "on'y  'Enery  an'  'er.  Well,  go  on." 

"I  can't.  That's  so  far  as  I've  written  up  to  the 
present.  It's  a  rough  copy,  you  understand;  an'  at 
Stratford  I  allow  to  write  it  out  fair  an'  post  it." 

Tilda  took  a  turn  at  considering. 

"The  further  I  go  on  this  v'y^ge,"  she  announced — 
"w'ich,  per'aps,  'twould  be  truthfuUer  to  say  the  longer 
it  takes — the  more  I  seems  to  get  mixed  up  in  other 
folks's  business.  But  you've  done  me  a  good  turn, 
Sam  Bossom;    an'  you've  been  open  with  me*    an'  I 

140 


THE  "STRATFORD-ON-AVON" 

reckon  I  got  to  keep  you  straight  in  this  'ere.    There! 
put  up  yer  verses  while  I  sit  an'  think  it  out." 

"You  don't  Uke  'em?" 

Sam  was  evidently  dashed. 

"Ifon'yl'adBill'ere " 

"Ha,  yes:  'iw.'  'E'd  put  a  boiler  inside  'em,  no 
doubt;,  an'  a  donkey-engin',  an' " 

"What  yer  talkin'  about?  .  .  .  Oh,  yer  verses! 
Bless  the  man,  I  wasn'  thinkin'  of  yer  verses.  I  was 
wantin'  Bill  'ere,  to  advise  somethin'  practical.  Lor' 
sake!  Look  at  Arthur  Miles  here,  the  way  'e's  leanin' 
overboard!  The  child  '11  drown  'isself,  nex'  news!" 
She  rose  up  and  ran  to  prevent  the  disaster.  "'Pears 
to  me  there's  a  deal  o'  motherin'  to  be  done  aboard  this 
boat.    Trouble  aft,  an'  trouble  forrard " 

She  was  hurrying  aft  when  Mr.  Mortimer  inter- 
cepted her  amidships.  He  held  a  book  in  one  hand, 
and  two  slips  of  paper  in  the  other. 

"Child,"  he  asked,  "could  you  learn  a  part? — a  very 
small  part?" 

"'Course  I  could,"  answered  Tilda  promptly; 
"but  I  ain't  goin'  to  play  it,  an'  don't  yer  make  any 
mistake.  'Ere,  let  me  get  to  Arthur  Miles  before  'e 
tumbles  overboard." 

She  darted  aft  and  dragged  the  boy  back  by  his 
collar. 

"What  d'  yer  mean  by  it,  givin'  folks  a  shock  like 
that?"  she  demanded. 

141 


TRUE  TILDA 

"I  was  looking  at  the  pictures,"  he  explained,  and 
showed  her. 

The  Success  to  Commerce  bore  on  her  stern  panels 
two  gaily  painted  landscapes,  the  one  of  Warwick 
Castle,  the  other  of  ruined  Kenilworth.  Tilda  leaned 
over  the  side  and  saw  them  mirrored  in  the  still 
water. 

"And  then,"  the  boy  pursued,  "down  below  the 
pictures  I  saw  a  great  ship  lying  in  the  seaweed  with 
guns  and  drowned  men  on  the  deck  and  the  fishes 
swimming  over  them.  Deep  in  the  ship  a  bell  was 
tolling " 

"Nonsense!"  Tilda  interrupted,  and  catching  up 
a  pole,  thrust  it  down  overside.  "Four  feet  at  the 
most,"  she  reported,  as  the  pole  found  bottom.  "You 
must  be  sickenin'  for  somethin'.    Put  out  your  tongue." 

"A  child  of  imagination,"  observed  Mr.  Mortimer, 
who  had  followed  her.  "Full  fathom  five  thy  father 
lies " 

"'Ush!"  cried  Tilda. 

"  — Of  his  bones  are  coral  made.  Those  are  pearls 
that  were  his  eyes " 

The  boy  sat  and  looked  up  at  the  speaker,  staring, 
shivering  a  little. 

"You  know?    You  know,  too?"  he  stammered. 

"He  knows  nothin'  about  it,"  insisted  Tilda.  "Please 
go  away,  Mr.  Mortimer?" 

"A  young  Shakespearian?    This  is,  indeed,  delight- 

142 


THE  "STRATFORD-ON-AVON" 

ful !    You  shall  have  a  part,  sir.    Your  delivery  will  be 
immature,    doubtless;     but   with    some    tuition    from 


me- 


"  If  you  try  it  on,  I'll  tell  'Ucks,"  the  girl  threatened, 
by  this  time  desperate.  "You're  like  all  the  actors — 
leastways  you're  like  all  that  ever  I  met;  an',  take  it 
'ow  you  will,  I  got  to  say  it.  Once  get  started  on  yer 
own  lay,  an'  everything  elst  goes  out  o'  yer  'eads.  You 
don't  mean  to  'urt,  but  selfish  you  are  and  'eedless,  an' 
somebody  'as  al'ays  the  world's  trouble  clearin'  up  the 
mess.  'Ere,  'and  me  the  part  you  was  tellin'  about; 
an'  I'll  learn  it  an'  say  it,  though  not  within  a  'undred 
miles  of  Glasson — which,"  she  added,  "I'll  be  an  old 
woman  before  that,  at  the  rate  we're  goin'.  But  you 
don't  drag  Arthur  Miles  into  it,  an'  I  give  you  fair 
warnin'.  For,  to  start  with,  'e's  'idin',  an'  'tis  only  to 
keep  'im  'id  that  I  got  'Ucks  to  let  yer  loose.  An'  nex' 
'e's  a  gentleman,  and  why  you  should  want  to  mix  'im 
up  with  yer  Shakespeares  I  can't  think." 

It  is  doubtful  if  Mr.  Mortimer  heard  the  conclusion 
of  her  outburst.  At  the  mention  of  Mr.  Hucks  he 
pressed  a  palm  dramatically  to  his  forehead;  and  now, 
withdrawing  it,  he  handed  her  the  two  slips  of  paper 
with  great  politeness. 

"True,  I  had  forgotten,"  he  murmured.  "Take 
your  time,  child — you  will  take  your  time,  I  beg." 

He  waved  his  hand,  and  withdrew  to  rejoin  his  wife 
on  the  cabin-top.     Tilda  studied  the  slips  of  paper, 

143 


TRUE  TILDA 

while  Arthur  Miles  edged  away  again  toward  the  gun- 
wale for  another  look  into  the  magic  water. 

"Stop  that! "  she  commanded,  glancing  up  and  catch- 
ing him  in  the  act.  "Stop  that,  and  read  these  for  me: 
I  can't  manage  handwriting." 

The  boy  took  the  first  slip  obediently  and  read 
aloud : 

^^  Madam,  a  horseman  comes  riding  across  the  hill. 
The  sun  flashes  full  on  his  arms.  By  my  halidame  'tis 
the  Knight  Hospitaller!" 

"That  seems  pretty  fair  rot,"  criticised  Tilda. 
"Let's 'ave  the  other." 

"Madam,  he  has  reined  up  his  steed.  He  stands 
without." 

Here  Arthur  Miles  paused  and  drew  breath. 

"Without  what?" 

"It  doesn't  say.  He  stands  without:  he  waves 
a  hand.    Shall  I  go  ask  his  errand  f  " 

"Is  that  all?  .  .  .  And  Mortimer  reckons  I'll  take 
from  'ere  to  Stratford  learnin'  that  little  rot!  Why, 
I  can  do  it  in  arf  a  minute,  an'  on  my  'ead.  You  just 
listen.  Madam,  a  'orseman —  No,  wait  a  moment. 
Madam,  a  Norseman —  "  Tilda  hesitated  and  came 
to  a  halt.  "Would  you  mind  sayin'  it  over  again, 
Arthur  Miles?"  she  asked  politely. 

"  Madam,  a  horseman  comes  riding " 

"That  '11  do.  Madam,  a — H — h — horseman —  Is 
that  better?" 

144 


THE  "STRATFORD-ON-AVON" 

"You  needn't  strain  at  it  so,"  said  the  boy.  "Why, 
you're  quite  red  in  the  face!" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  need,"  said  Tilda;  "first-along,  any'ow," 
She  fell  silent  for  a  space.  "That  Mortimer,"  she  con- 
ceded, "isn'  quite  the  ass  that  'e  looks.  This  'as  got 
to  take  time,  after  all."  She  paused  a  moment  in 
thought,  and  then  broke  out,  "Oh,  Arthur  Miles,  the 
trouble  you're  layin'  on  me!  First,  to  be  a  mother — 
an'  that's  not  'ard.    But,  on  top  o'  that,  a  lady!" 

"Why  should  you  be  a  lady?"  he  asked. 

"Why?"  Tilda  echoed  almost  bitterly.  "Oh,  you 
needn'  think  I'll  want  to  marry  yer  when  all's  done. 
Why  ?  Oh,  merely  to  'elp  you,  bein'  the  sort  you  are. 
All  you've  got  to  do,  bein'  the  sort  you  are,  is  to  sit 
quiet  an'  teach  me.  But  I  got  to  be  a  lady,  if  it  costs 
me  my  shift." 


145 


CHAPTER  XII 

PURSUED 

At  ten  o'clock  Sam  harnessed  up  again,  and  shortly 
before  noon  our  travellers  left  the  waterway  by  which 
they  had  travelled  hitherto,  and  passed  out  to  the  right 
through  a  cut,  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long,  where 
a  rising  lock  took  them  into  the  Stratford-on-Avon 
Canal. 

Said  Sam  as  he  worked  the  lock,  the  two  children 
standing  beside  and  watching: 

"Now  see  here,  when  you  meet  your  clever  friend 
Bill,  you  put  him  two  questions  from  me.  First,  why, 
when  the  boat's  through,  am  I  goin'  to  draw  the  water 
off  an'  leave  the  lock  empty?" 

Before  Tilda  could  answer,  Arthur  Miles  exclaimed : 

"I  know!  It's  because  we're  going  uphill,  and  at 
the  other  locks,  when  we  were  going  downhill,  the 
water  emptied  itself." 

''Right,  so  far  as  you  go,"  nodded  Sam.  "But  why 
should  a  lock  be  left  empty?" 

The  boy  thought  for  a  moment. 

"Because  you  don't  want  the  water  to  waste,  and 
top  gates  hold  it  better  than  lower  ones." 

146 


PURSUED 

"Why  do  the  top  gates  hold  it  better?" 

"Because  they  shut  with  the  water,  and  the  water 
holds  them  fast ;  and  because  they  are  smaller  than  the 
bottom  gates,  and  don't  leak  so  much." 

"That's  very  cleverly  noticed,"  said  Sam.  "Now 
you  keep  your  eyes  alive  while  we  work  this  one,  an' 
tell  me  what  you  see." 

They  watched  the  operation  carefully. 

"Well?"  he  asked  as,  having  passed  the  Success  to 
Commerce  through,  he  went  back  to  open  the  lower 
paddles — or  slats,  as  he  called  them. 

"I  saw  nothing,"  the  boy  confessed  disappointedly, 
"except  that  you  seemed  to  use  more  water  than  at  the 
others." 

"  Well,  and  that's  just  it.    But  why  ?  " 

"It  has  something  to  do,  of  course,  with  going  up- 
hill instead  of  down.  .  .  .  And — and  I've  got  the 
reason  somewhere  inside  my  head,  but  I  can't  catch 
hold  of  it." 

"I'll  put  it  another  way.  This  boat's  mod'rate 
well  laden,  an'  she  takes  more  water  lockin'  up  than  if 
she  was  empty;  but  if  she  was  empty,  she'd  take  more 
water  lockin'  down.  That's  a  fac' ;  an'  if  you  can  give 
me  a  reason  for  it  you'll  be  doin'  me  a  kindness.  For 
I  never  could  find  one,  an'  I've  lain  awake  at  nights 
puzzlin'  it  over." 

"I  bet  Bill  would  know,"  said  Tilda. 

Sam  eyed  her. 

147 


TRUE  TILDA 

"I'd  give  somethin',''  he  said,  "to  be  sure  this  Bill, 
as  you  make  such  a  gawd  of,  is  a  real  person — or 
whether,  bein'  born  different  to  the  rest  of  yer  sex, 
you've  'ad  to  invent  'im." 

Many  locks  encumber  the  descending  levels  of  the 
Stratford-on-Avon  Canal,  and  they  kept  Sam  busy. 
In  the  intervals  the  boat  glided  deeper  and  deeper  into 
a  green  pastoral  country,  parcelled  out  with  hedgerows 
and  lines  of  elms,  behind  which  here  and  there  lay  a 
village  half  hidden — a  gray  tower  and  a  few  red-tiled 
roofs  visible  between  the  trees.  Cattle  dotted  the  near 
pastures,  till  away  behind  the  trees — for  summer  had 
passed  into  late  September — the  children  heard  now 
and  again  the  guns  of  partridge  shooters  cracking  from 
fields  of  stubble.  But  no  human  folk  frequented  the 
banks  of  the  canal,  which  wound  its  way  past  scented 
meadows  edged  with  willow-herb,  late  meadow-sweet, 
yellow  tansy,  and  purple  loosestrife,  this  last  showing 
a  blood-red  stalk  as  its  bloom  died  away.  Out  beyond, 
green  arrowheads  floated  on  the  water;  the  Success  to 
Commerce  ploughed  through  beds  of  them,  and  they 
rose  from  under  her  keel  and  spread  themselves  again 
in  her  wake.  Very  little  traffic  passed  over  these  waters. 
In  all  the  way  to  Preston  Bagot  our  travellers  met  but 
three  boats.  One,  at  Lowsonford  Lock,  had  a  pair  of 
donkeys  ("animals"  Sam  called  them)  to  haul  it;  the 
other  two,  they  met,  coming  up  light  by  Fiwood  Green. 

148 


PURSUED 

"Hold  in!"  "Hold  out!"  called  the  steersmen  as  the 
boats  met.  Sam  held  wide,  and  by  shouts  instructed 
Mr.  Mortimer  how  to  cross  the  towropes;  and  Mr- 
Mortimer  put  on  an  extremely  knowledgeable  air,  but 
obeyed  him  with  so  signal  a  clumsiness  that  the  bargees 
desired  to  know  where  the  Success  to  Commerce  had 
shipped  her  new  mate. 

The  question,  though  put  with  good-humour,  ap- 
peared to  disturb  Sam,  who  for  the  rest  of  the  way 
steered  in  silence.  There  are  three  locks  at  Preston 
Bagot,  and  at  the  first  Mr.  Mortimer  took  occasion  to 
apologise  for  his  performance,  adding  that  practice 
made  perfect. 

"I  wonder  now,"  said  Sam  delicately,  "if  you  could 
practise  leavin'  off  that  fur  collar  ?  A  little  unhandiness 
'11  pass  off,  an'  no  account  taken;  but  with  a  furred 
overcoat  'tis  different,  an'  I  ought  to  a-mentioned  it 
before.  We  don't  want  the  children  tracked,  do  we? 
An'  unfort'nitly  you're  not  one  to  pass  in  a  crowd." 

"You  pay  me  a  compliment,"  Mr.  Mortimer  an- 
swered. "Speaking,  however,  as  man  to  man,  let  me 
say  that  I  would  gladly  waive  whatever  show  my  over- 
coat may  contribute  to  the — er — total  effect  to  which 
you  refer.  But" — ^here  he  unbuttoned  the  front  of  his 
garment — "I  leave  it  to  you  to  judge  if,  without  it,  I 
shall  attract  less  attention.  Laudatur,  my  dear  Smiles, 
et  alget.  Pawpertas,  diura  paupertas — I  might,  perhaps, 
satisfy  the  curious  gazer  by  producing  the — er — pawn- 

149 


TRUE  TILDA 

tickets  for  the  missing  articles.  But  it  would  hardly — 
eh,  I  put  it  to  you?" 

"No,  it  wouldn'/'  decided  Sam.  "But  it's  unfort'nit 
all  the  same,  an'  in  more  ways  'n  one.  You  see,  there's 
a  nasty  'abit  folks  *ave  in  these  parts.  Anywheres 
between  Warwick  an'  Birming'am  a  native  can't  'ardly 
pass  a  canal-boat  without  wantin'  to  arsk,  "Oo  stole 
the  rabbit-skin?'  I  don't  know  why  they  arsk  it;  but 
when  it  'appens,  you've  got  to  fight  the  man — or  elst 
/  must." 

"I  would  suggest  that  you,  being  the  younger 
man " 

"Well,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Sam.  "On'y  the  p'int 
is  I  don't  scarcely  never  fight  without  attractin'  notice. 
The  last  time  'twas  five  shillin'  an'  costs  or  ten  days. 
An'  there's  the  children  to  be  considered." 

During  this  debate  Tilda  and  Arthur  Miles  had 
wandered  ashore  with  'Dolph,  and  the  dog,  by  habit 
inquisitive,  had  headed  at  once  for  a  wooden  storehouse 
that  stood  a  little  way  back  from  the  waterside — a 
large  building  of  two  stories,  with  a  beam  and  pulley 
projecting  from  the  upper  one,  and  heavy  folding- 
doors  below.  One  of  these  doors  stood  open,  and 
'Dolph,  dashing  within,  at  once  set  up  a  frantic  barking. 

"Hullo!"  Tilda  stepped  quickly  in  front  of  the 
boy  to  cover  him.    "There's  somebody  inside." 

The  barking  continued  for  almost  half  a  minute,  and 
then   Godolphus  emerged,   capering  absurdly  on   his 

150 


PURSUED 

hind  legs  and  revolving  like  a  dervish,  flung  up  his 
head,  yapped  thrice  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  and  again 
plunged  into  the  store. 

"That's  funny,  too,"  mused  Tilda.  "I  never  knew 
'im  be'ave  like  that  'cept  when  he  met  with  a  friend. 
Arthur  Miles,  you  stay  where  you  are — "  She  tip- 
toed forward  and  peered  within.  "Lord  sake,  come 
an'  look  'ere!"  she  called  after  a  moment. 

The  boy  followed,  and  stared  past  her  shoulder  into 
the  gloom.  There,  in  the  centre  of  the  earthen  floor, 
wrapped  around  with  straw  bands,  stood  a  wooden 
horse. 

It  was  painted  gray,  with  beautiful  dapples,  and 
nostrils  of  fierce  scarlet.  It  had  a  tail  of  real  horse- 
hair and  a  golden  mane,  and  on  its  near  shoulder  a  blue 
scroll  with  its  name  Kitchener  thereon  in  letters  of  gold. 
Its  legs  were  extended  at  a  gallop. 

"Gavel's!"  said  Tilda.  "Gavel's,  at  ten  to  one  an' 
no  takers!  .  .  .  But  why?    'Ow?" 

She  turned  on  'Dolph,  scolding,  commanding  him 
to  be  quiet;  and  'Dolph  subsided  on  his  haunches  and 
watched  her,  his  stump  tail  jerking  to  and  fro  beneath 
him  like  an  unweighted  pendulum.  There  was  a  label 
attached  to  the  straw  bands.  She  turned  it  over  and 
read :  James  Gavel,  Proprietor,  Imperial  Steam  Round- 
abouts, Henley-in-Arden.  Deliver  Immediately.  .  .  . 
"An'  me  thinkin'  Bill  'ad  gone  north  to  Wolver'amp- 
ton!"  she  breathed. 

151 


TRUE  TILDA 

Before  the  boy  could  ask  her  meaning  they  heard 
the  rumble  of  wheels  outside ;  and  Tilda,  catching  him 
by  the  arm,  hurried  him  back  to  the  doors  just  as  a 
two-horse  wagon  rolled  down  to  the  wharf,  in  charge 
of  an  elderly  driver — a  sour-visaged  man  in  a  smock- 
frock,  with  a  weather-stained  top  hat  on  the  back  of 
his  head,  and  in  his  hand  a  whip  adorned  with  rings  of 
polished  brass. 

He  pulled  up,  eyed  the  two  children,  and  demanded 
to  know  what  they  meant  by  trespassing  in  the  store. 

"We  were  admirin'  the  'orse,"  answered  Tilda. 

"An'  likewise  truantin'  from  school,"  the  waggoner 
suggested.  "But  that's  the  way  of  it  in  England  now- 
adays; the  likes  o*  me  payin'  rates  to  eddicate  the  likes 
o'  you.  An'  that's  your  Conservative  Government. 
.  .  .  Eddication!"  he  went  on  after  a  pause.  "What's 
eddication  ?  Did  either  o'  you  ever  'ear  tell  of  Joseph 
Arch?" 

"Can't  say  we  'ave." 

"He  was  bom  no  farther  away  than  Barford — Bar- 
ford-on-Avon.  But  I  s'pose  your  schoolmaster's  too 
busy  teachin'  you  the  planner." 

Tilda  digested  the  somewhat  close  reasoning  for  a 
moment,  and  answered: 

"It's  fair  sickenin',  the  amount  o'  time  spent  on  the 
planner.  Between  you  an'  me,  that's  partly  why  we 
cut  an'  run.  You  mustn'  think  we  'ate  school — if  on'y 
they'd  teach  us  what's  useful.    'Oo's  Joseph  Arch?" 

152 


PURSUED 

"He  was  born  at  Barford,"  said  the  waggoner;  "an' 
at  Barford  he  Hves." 

"'E  must  be  a  remarkable  man,"  said  Tilda,  **an' 
I'm  sorry  I  don't  know  more  of  'im.  But  I  know 
Gavel." 

"Gavel?" 

"Im  as  the  'orse  belongs  to:  an'  Bill.  Gavel's  a  re- 
markable man,  too,  in  'is  way;  though  not  a  patch  on 
Bill.  Bill  tells  me  Gavel  can  get  drunk  twice  anv  day; 
separate  drunk,  that  is." 

"Liberal  or  Conservative?" 

"Well,"  hesitated  Tilda,  playing  for  safety,  "I  dunno 
as  he'd  tell,  under  a  pint;  but  mos'  likely  it  depends  on 
the  time  o'  day." 

"I  arsked,"  said  the  waggoner,  "because  he's  hired 
by  the  Primrose  Feet;  an'  if  he's  the  kind  o'  man  to 
sell  'is  princerples,  I  don't  so  much  mind  'ow  bad  the 
news  I  breaks  to  him." 

"What  news?" 

The  man  searched  in  his  pocket,  and  drew  forth  a 
greasy  post  card. 

"He  sent  word  to  me  there  was  six  painted  'osses 
comin'  by  canal  from  Burning'am,  to  be  delivered  at 
the  Wharf  this  mornin';  an'  would  I  fetch  'em  along 
to  the  Feet  Ground,  Henley-in-Arden,  without  delay?" 

"  Henley-in-Arden ! "  exclaimed  a  voice  behind  the 
children;  whereat  Tilda  turned  about  with  a  start.  It 
was  the  voice  of  Mr.  Mortimer,  who  had  strolled  across 

153 


TRUE  TILDA 

from  the  lock  bank,  and  stood  conning  the  wagon  and 
team.  " Henley-in-Arden  ?  O  Helicon!  If  you'll 
excuse  the  remark,  sir.    O  Parnassus!" 

"Maybe  I  might,"  said  the  waggoner  guardedly,  "if 
I  understood  its  bearin's." 

"Name  redolent  of  Shakespeare!  Of  RosaUnd  and 
Touchstone,  Jaques  and  Amiens,  sheepcrooks  and 
venison  feasts,  and  ballads  pinned  to  oaks!  What  shall 
he  have  who  killed  the  deer,  Mr.  ?" 

"  'Oily,"  said  the  waggoner. 

"I  beg  your  pardon ?" 

"'Oily  S.  'Oily  and  Son,  Carters  an'  'Auliers." 

"Is  it  possible?  .  .  .  better  and  better!  Sing  heigh- 
ho!  the  Holly,  this  life  is  most  jolly.  I  trust  you  find  it 
so,  Mr.  Holly?" 

"If  you  want  to  know,"  Mr.  Holly  answered  sourly, 

"I  don't." 

"You  pain  and  astonish  me,  Mr.  Holly.  The  pen- 
alty of  Adam,  the  season's  difference"— Mr.  Mortimer 
turned  up  his  furred  collar— "  surely,  sir,  you  will  allow 
no  worse  to  afflict  you  ?  You,  a  dweller  on  the  confines 
of  Henley-in-Arden,  within  measurable  distance,  as  I 
gathered  ?  " 

"Mile  an'  a  'arf." 

"  No  more  ?    O  Phoebus  and  the  Nine! " 

"There  was,"  said  Mr.  Holly,  "to  'a  been  six.  An' 
by  consequence  here  I  be  with  a  pair  of  'osses  an'  the 
big  waggon.     Best  go  home-along,  I  reckon,  an'  fetch 

154 


PURSUED 

out  the  cart,"  he  grumbled,  with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb 
indicating  a  red-tiled  building  on  the  hillside,  half  a 
mile  away. 

"Not  so,"  Mr.  Mortimer  tapped  his  brow.  "An 
idea  occurs  to  me — if  you  will  spare  me  a  moment  to 
consult  with  my — er — partner.  A  Primrose  Fete,  you 
said  ?  I  am  no  politician,  Mr.  Holly,  but  I  understand 
the  Primrose  League  exists — primarily — or  ultimately 
— to  save  our  world-wide  empire.  And  how  shall  an 
empire  stand  without  its  Shakespeare?  Our  tent  and 
appliances  will  just  load  your  waggon.  As  the  younger 
Dumas  observed,  'Give  me  two  boards,  two  trestles, 
three  actors' — but  the  great  vEschylus  did  with  two — 
'two  actors,'  let  us  say — 'and  a  passion' — provided 
your  terms  are  not  prohibitive.  .  .  .  Hi,  Smiles! 
Approach,  Smiles,  and  be  introduced  to  Thespis.  His 
charge  is  three  shillings.  At  the  price  of  three  shillings 
behold.  Smiles,  the  golden  age  returned!  Comedy 
carted  home  through  leafy  ways  shall  trill  her  wood- 
notes — her  native  woodnotes  wild — in  Henley-in- 
Arden!" 

The  waggon  had  been  packed  and  had  departed, 
Mrs.  Mortimer  perched  high  on  a  pile  of  tent  cloths, 
and  Mr.  Mortimer  waving  farewells  from  the  tail- 
board. 

The  two  children,  left  with  instructions  to  keep  near 
the  boat  and  in  hiding,  had  made  a  nest  for  themselves 

155 


TRUE  TILDA 

among  the  stalks  of  loosestrife,  and  sat  watching  the 
canal  for  sign  of  a  moorhen  or  a  water-rat.  The  after- 
noon was  bright  and  very  still,  with  a  dazzle  on  the 
water  and  a  faint  touch  of  autumn  in  the  air — the  after- 
glow of  summer  soon  to  pass  into  gray  chills  and  gusts 
of  rain.    For  many  minutes  neither  had  spoken. 

"Look!"  said  Tilda,  pointing  to  a  distant  ripple 
drawn  straight  across  the  surface.  "There  goes  a  rat, 
and  I've  won!" 

The  boy  said : 

"A  boat  takes  up  room  in  the  water,  doesn't  it?" 

"O'  course  it  does.  But  what's  that  got  to  do  with 
rats?" 

"  Nothing.  I  was  thinking  of  Sam's  puzzle,  and  I've 
guessed  it.  A  boat  going  downward  through  a  lock 
would  want  a  lock  full,  all  but  the  water  it  pushes  out 
from  the  room  it  takes  up.    Wouldn't  it?" 

"  I  s'pose  so,"  said  Tilda  doubtfully. 

"  But  a  boat  going  up  will  want  a  lock  full,  and  that 
water  too.  And  that's  why  an  empty  boat  going  down- 
hill takes  more  water  than  a  loaded  one,  and  less  going 
up." 

To  Tilda  the  puzzle  remained  a  puzzle. 

"  It  sounds  all  right,"  she  allowed.  "  But  what  makes 
you  so  clever  about  boats  ?" 

"I've  got  to  know  about  them.  Else  how  shall  we 
ever  find  the  Island  ?" 

She  thought  for  half  a  minute. 

156 


PURSUED 

"You're  sure  about  that  Island?"  she  asked  a  trifle 
anxiously. 

Arthur  Miles  turned  to  her  with  a  confident  smile. 

"Of  course  I'm  sure." 

"Well,  we'll  arsk  about  it  when  we  get  to  Stratford- 
on-Avon." 

She  was  about  to  say  more,  but  checked  herself  at 
sight  of  a  barge  coming  down  the  canal — slowly,  and 
as  yet  so  far  away  that  the  tramp  of  the  tow-horse's 
hoofs  on  the  path  was  scarcely  audible.  She  laid  a 
hand  on  'Dolph's  collar  and  pressed  him  down  in  the 
long  grass,  commanding  him  to  be  quiet,  whilst  she 
and  the  boy  wriggled  away  toward  an  alder  bush  that 
stood  a  furlong  back  from  the  bank. 

Stretched  at  length  behind  the  bush,  she  had,  between 
the  fork  of  its  stem,  a  clear  view  of  the  approaching 
boat.  Its  well  coverings  were  loose,  and  by  the  upper 
lock  gate  the  steersman  laid  it  close  along  shore  and 
put  out  a  gang-plank.  His  mate,  after  fitting  a  nose- 
bag on  the  horse,  came  at  a  call  to  assist  him,  and  to- 
gether they  lifted  out  a  painted  wooden  steed  wrapped 
in  straw,  and  carried  it  to  the  store. 

Having  deposited  it  there,  they  returned  and  un- 
loaded another.  Five  horses  they  disembarked  and 
housed  thus;  and  then,  like  men  relieved  of  a  job,  spat 
on  their  hands  and  turned  to  work  their  boat  down 
through  the  locks.  For  twenty  minutes  the  children  lay 
prone  and  watched  them,  Tilda  still  keeping  a  hand  on 

157 


TRUE  TILDA 

the  scruff  of  'Dolph's  neck.  Then,  as  the  boat,  having 
gained  a  clear  reach  of  water,  faded  down  in  the  gath- 
ering dusk,  she  arose  and  stretched  herself. 

"For  any  one  but  Bill  I  wouldn'  risk  it,"  she  said. 
"  But  maybe  his  credit  depends  on  gettin'  them  'osses 
delivered  to-night." 

She  took  Arthur  Miles  by  the  hand,  found  the 
road,  and  dragged  him  uphill  at  a  trot  toward  the 
group  of  red  brick  buildings  that  showed  between  the 
trees. 

The  buildings  consisted  of  a  cottage  and  a  long  stable 
or  coach-house  contiguous.  This  presented  a  blank 
white-washed  wall  to  the  road,  but  a  Gloire  de  Dijon 
rose  spread  itself  over  the  cottage  front,  almost  smoth- 
ering a  board  with  the  inscription :  S.  Holly  and  Son, 
Carters  and  Hauliers. 

Tilda  knocked,  and  her  knock  was  answered  by  a 
sour-visaged  woman. 

"  Well,  an'  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  asked  the  woman, 
staring  down  from  her  doorstep  on  the  children. 

"If  you  please,  ma'am,  is  Mr.  'Oily  at  'ome?" 

"No,  he  ain't." 

"I  knew  it,"  said  Tilda  tranquilly.  "But  by  all 
accounts  'e's  got  a  son." 

"Eh?" 

The  woman  still  stared,  divided  between  surprise 
and  mistrust. 

"You're  mistakin',"  Tilda  pursued.    "I  ain't  come 

158 


PURSUED 

with  any  scandal  about  the  fam'ly.  A  grown-up  son, 
I  mean — with  a  'orse  an'  cart.  Because,  if  so,  there's 
five  gallopin'  'orses  down  at  the  wharf  waitin'  to  be 
taken  over  to  Henley-in-Arden." 

"Oh?"  said  the  woman.  "My  'usband  left  word 
Gustavus  was  to  fetch  'em  along  if  they  arrived.  But 
who  sent  you  with  the  message?" 

"I've  a  friend  in  Gavel's  business,"  Tilda  answered 
with  dignity.  "  'E's  what  you  might  call  Gavel's  right- 
'and  man — an'  'e's  'andy  with  'is  right,  too,  when  'e's 
put  out.  If  'e  should  'ear — I'm  advisin'  for  yer  good, 
mind — if  'e  should  'ear  as  five  'orses  was  'ung  upon 
the  wharf  'ere  through  S.  'Oily  an'  Son's  neglect,  you 
may  look  out  for  ructions.    An'  that's  all  I  promise." 

She  turned  back  toward  the  wharf,  and  even  as 
Arthur  Miles  turned  to  follow  they  could  hear  the 
woman  calling  loudly,  summoning  her  son  from  his 
tea  in  the  kitchen. 

"I  reckon,"  commented  Tilda,  "I  put  the  fear  o* 
Bill  into  that  woman.  You  may  'a  noticed  I  didn'  like 
her  looks." 

She  led  the  way  back  to  the  wharf  in  some  elation. 
Twilight  was  gathering  there  and  over  the  canal.  She 
had  rounded  the  corner  of  the  store,  when,  happening 
to  glance  toward  the  Success  to  Commerce,  moored 
under  the  bank  a  bare  twenty  yards  away,  she  halted, 
and  with  a  gasp  shrank  close  into  the  shadow. 

"Collar  'Dolph!    Grip  'old  on  'im  for  the  Lord's 

159 


TRUE  TILDA 

sake!"    she  whispered,  and  clutched  Arthur  Miles  by 
the  arm. 

On  the  bank  beside  the  boat  stood  a  man. 

"But  what's  the  matter?"  the  boy  demanded. 

"'Ushl    Oh,  'ush  an'  lie  close!    It's  GlassonI" 


160 


CHAPTER  Xin 

ADVENTURE   OF  THE   FURKED   COLLAR 

"'Do  you  know  me,  my  lord?  ' 
'Excellent  well;  you  are  a  fishmonger.'" — Hamlet. 

He  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  wharf — a  black  figure  in 
an  Inverness  cape — with  his  back  toward  the  angle  of 
the  store  where  the  children  hid.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking him.  For  two  nights  he  had  haunted  Tilda's 
dreams;  and  she  could  have  picked  him  out,  even  in 
the  twilight,  from  among  a  thousand. 

She  gave  another  gasp,  and  with  that  her  presence 
of  mind  returned.  He  had  not  seen  them;  he  was 
watching  the  barge.  The  angle  of  the  store  would  still 
hide  them  if  they  tip-toed  to  the  wharf  gate.  But  they 
must  be  noiseless  as  mice;  they  must  reach  the  road, 
and  then 

She  caught  up  'Dolph  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck, 
tucked  him  under  her  arm,  and  whispered  to  Arthur 
Miles  to  steal  after  her.  But  before  she  had  taken  three 
paces  another  fright  brought  her  heart  into  her  mouth. 

Footsteps  were  coming  down  the  road.  They  could 
not  belong  to  the  waggoner's  son.  He  would  be  bring- 
ing his  horse  and  cart.     The  footsteps  were  light,  too 

161 


TRUE  TILDA 

— light  and  hurried,  and  not  to  be  associated  with  hob- 
nailed boots. 

Almost  desperate  at  this  cutting  off  of  retreat,  Tilda 
pulled  Arthur  Miles  toward  a  wooden  stairway,  un- 
railed,  painted  over  with  Stockholm  tar,  built  against 
the  outside  of  the  store,  and  leading  to  its  upper  cham- 
ber. 

"Up!  and  quick!"  she  commanded,  pushing  him 
before  her.  She  followed  panting,  leaning  against  the 
wall  for  support,  for  'Dolph  was  no  light  burden,  and 
his  weight  taxed  her  hurt  leg  painfully. 

The  door  of  the  loft  stood  ajar.  She  staggered  in 
after  the  boy,  dropped  the  dog,  and  closed  all  but  a 
chink,  at  which  she  posted  herself,  drawing  quick 
breaths. 

In  the  darkness  behind  her  Arthur  Miles  listened. 
The  footsteps  drew  nearer,  paused,  and  after  a  moment 
were  audible  again  in  the  yard  below. 

"Good  Lord —it's  Gavel!" 

"Eh?"    The  boy  drew  closer  to  her  shoulder. 

"It's  Gavel,  come  in  a  sweat  for  'is  'orses.  I  didn' 
reckemise  'im  for  the  moment — dressed  out  in  a  fur 
coat  an'  Trilby  'at.  But  it's  Gavel,  an'  'e's  walkin' 
straight  into  Glasson's  arms.  Stand  by  to  do  a  bolt 
soon  as  'e  turns  the  corner." 

"But  I  don't  see  what  he  has  to  do  with — with — " 
Arthur  Miles  hesitated  before  the  terrible  name. 

"Glasson?     Oh,  nothin';    on'y  ten  to  one  Gavel's 

162 


AD^^NTURE  OF  THE  FURRED  COLLAR 

met  with  the  Mortimers,  an'  Glasson  bein'  on  the  track 
already —    W'y,  what  elst  is  the  man  'ere  for?" 

"He  shan't  take  me,"  said  the  boy  after  a  pause, 
and  in  a  strained  low  voice  which,  nevertheless,  had 
no  tremor  in  it.    "  Not  if  I  throw  myself  off  the  ladder." 

"You  stop  that  talk,  please,"  threatened  Tilda. 
"It's  wicked;  an'  besides,  they  'aven't  caught  us  yet. 
Do  what  I  tell  yer,  an'  stand  by  to  bolt." 

She  crept  to  the  other  door,  which  commanded  the 
canal  front,  unbarred  it  softly,  and  opened  the  upper 
hatch  a  few  inches.  Through  this  aperture,  by  stand- 
ing on  tip-toe,  she  could  watch  the  meeting  of  the  two 
men. 

"When  I  call,  run  for  yer  life." 

But  a  minute — two  minutes — passed,  and  the  com- 
mand did  not  come.  Arthur  Miles,  posted  by  the  bolt- 
hole,  held  his  breath  at  the  sound  of  voices  without,  by 
the  waterside.  The  tones  of  one  he  recognised  with  a 
shiver.  They  were  raised,  and  although  he  could  not 
catch  the  words,  apparently  in  altercation.  Forgetting 
orders,  he  tip-toed  across  to  Tilda's  elbow. 

Mr.  James  Gavel,  proprietor  of  Imperial  Steam 
Roundabouts — as  well  as  of  half  a  dozen  side-shows, 
including  a  Fat  Lady  and  a  Try-your-Strength  machine 
— was  a  small  man  with  a  purplish  nose  and  a  temper 
kept  irritable  by  alcohol;  and  to-day  the  Fates  had  con- 
spired to  rub  that  temper  on  the  rar.    He  swore  aloud, 

163 


TRUE  TILDA 

and  partly  believed,  that  ever  since  coming  to  Henley- 
in-Arden  he  was  bewitched. 

He  had  come  at  the  instance,  and  upon  the  guar- 
antee, of  Sir  Elphinstone  Breward,  Baronet,  C.B., 
K  C.V.O.,  a  local  landowner,  who,  happening  to  visit 
Warwick  on  County  Council  business,  which  in  its 
turn  happened  to  coincide  with  a  fair  day,  had  been 
greatly  struck  by  the  title  "Imperial"  painted  over  Mr. 
Gavel's  show,  and  with  soldierly  promptness  had  en- 
gaged the  whole  outfit — Roundabouts,  Fat  Lady,  and 
all — for  his  forthcoming  Primrose  Fete. 

If  beside  his  addiction  to  alcohol  Mr,  Gavel  had  a 
weakness,  it  was  the  equally  British  one  of  worship- 
ping a  title.  Flattered  by  the  honest  baronet's  invita- 
tion, he  had  met  it  almost  more  than  half-way;  and 
had  despatched  six  of  his  shabbiest  horses  to  Birming- 
ham to  be  repainted  for  the  fete,  and  labelled  "Kitch- 
ener," "Bobs,"  "Cecil  Rhodes,"  "Doctor  Jim,"  "Our 
Joe,"  and  "Strathcona" — names  (as  he  observed)  alto- 
gether more  up  to  date  than  the  "Black  Prince," 
"Brown  Bess,"  "Saladin,"  and  others  they  superseded. 

Respect  for  his  patron  had  further  prompted  Mr. 
Gavel,  on  the  morning  of  the  f^te,  to  don  a  furred 
overcoat,  and  to  swear  off  drink  for  the  day.  This 
abstinence,  laudable  in  itself,  disastrously  affected  his 
temper,  and  brought  him  before  noon  into  wordy  con- 
flict with  his  engineer.  The  quarrel,  suppressed  for 
the  time,  flamed  out  afresh  in  the  afternoon,  and,  un- 

164 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  FURRED  COLLAR 

fortunately,  at  a  moment  when  Sir  Elphinstone,  as 
chairman,  was  introducing  the  star  orator  from  Lon- 
don. Opprobrious  words  had  reached  the  ears  of  the 
company  gathered  on  the  platform,  and  Sir  Elphinstone 
had  interrupted  his  remarks  about  Bucking  Up  and 
Thinking  Imperially  to  send  a  policeman  through  the 
crowd  with  instructions  to  stop  that  damned  brawling. 

If  the  great  Napoleon  may  be  forgiven  for  losing  his 
temper  when  at  five  in  the  afternoon  from  the  slope  of 
La  Belle  Alliance  he  watched  the  Prussians  breaking 
through  the  opposite  woods,  while  Grouchy  yet  tar- 
ried, let  it  be  pleaded  in  excuse  for  Mr.  Gavel  that  ever 
since  eleven  A,  m,  he  had  been  awaiting  the  arrival  of 
his  six  newly  painted  horses.  The  Birmingham  deco- 
rator had  pledged  himself  to  deliver  them  early  at  Pres- 
ton Bagot,  and  Mr.  Gavel  knew  him  for  a  man  of  his 
word.  He  had  made  arrangements  for  their  prompt 
conveyance  to  the  field.  He  did  not  doubt,  but  he  was 
undeniably  anxious. 

Imagine,  then,  his  feelings  when  at  four  o'clock  or  a 
little  later  a  waggon — the  waggon  of  his  hiring — rolled 
into  the  enclosure  bringing  one  horse  only,  and  in  place 
of  the  others  a  pile  of  tent-cloths  and  theatrical  boxes, 
on  which  sat  and  smiled  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mortimer,  his 
professional  rivals. 

He  had  been  drinking  ginger  ale  all  day,  and  in 
copious  draughts.  It  must  be  confessed  that  he  lost 
his  temper  wofully,    and  so  vociferously  that  Sir  El- 

165 


TRUE  TILDA 

phinstone  this  time  descended  from  the  platform  and 
strode  across  the  meadow  to  demand  what  the  devil  he 
meant  by  it.  Nor  was  even  this  the  last  drop  in  the  cup 
of  Mr.  Gavel's  bitterness;  for  the  baronet,  struck  by 
Mr.  Mortimer's  appearance  and  genteel  address,  at 
once  invited  him  to  set  up  his  tent  and  save  the  situation 
so  desperately  compromised. 

Sam  Bossom,  perceiving  that  the  waggon  stood  on 
ground  well  adapted  for  pitching  a  tent,  cheerfully 
proceeded  to  unload.  Mr.  Gavel  watched  in  speech- 
less rage.  Old  Holly,  the  carrier,  suggested  that  there 
was  no  need  to  give  up  hope  of  the  horses.  They  might 
turn  up  yet  before  dark.  Boats  came  down  the  canal 
at  all  hours  of  the  day. 

"Then  why  couldn't  you  have  waited  and  given  'em 
a  chance?"  foamed  the  proprietor;  and  commanding 
Holly  to  turn  the  empty  wagon  and  follow,  he  strode 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  Wharf.  The  afternoon  was 
hot.  His  furred  coat  oppressed  him;  his  shoes — of 
patent  leather,  bought  ready-made — pinched  his  feet. 
On  the  road  he  came  to  a  public-house,  entered,  and 
gulped  down  two  "goes"  of  whisky.  Still  the  waggon 
lagged  behind.  Re-emerging,  he  took  the  road  again, 
his  whole  man  hot  within  his  furred  coat  as  a  teapot 
within  a  cosey. 

In  this  temper,  then,  Mr,  Gavel  came  to  the  wharf  at 
Preston  Bagot  locks,  and  finding  the  Success  to  Cowr- 

166 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  FURRED  COLLAR 

merce  moored   there  with   a   tall   man   apparently  in 
charge,  demanded  if  he  came  from  Birmingham. 

"Or  thereabouts,"  answered  the  tall  man,  eyeing  him. 
"  From  there  or  thereabouts.  And,  if  I  mistake  not,  you 
are  the — er — person  of  whom  I  came  in  search." 

The  man's  voice  took  Mr.  Gavel  somewhat  aback. 
It  did  not  resemble  an  ordinary  bargee's.  But  at  the 
moment  he  could  no  more  check  the  explosion  of  his 
wrath  than  you  can  hold  back  a  cork  in  the  act  of  pop- 
ping from  a  bottle  of  soda-water. 

"Curse  your  laziness!"  exploded  Mr.  Gavel;  "and 
this  is  your  notion  of  searching  for  me,  is  it  ?" 

"It  appears  to  be  a  pretty  successful  one,"  said 
Dr.  Glasson.  "I've  discovered  you,  anyhow;  and 
now  I  suggest  to  you  that  swearing  won't  help  the 
reckoning  between  us." 

"Oh,  stow  your  fine  talk!  I've  heard  of  sea-lawyers, 
and  I  suppose  you're  a  canal  specimen.  Carriage  was 
paid  at  the  other  end,  and  you  know  it.  I  catch  you 
here  loafing,  and  I'm  going  to  dispute  the  bill — which 
means  that  you'll  get  the  sack,  ray  friend,  whether  I 
recover  the  money  or  no.  Pounds  out  of  pocket  lam 
by  this,  not  to  speak  of  reputation.  Where  are  they? 
Where  have  you  put  'em  ?  " 

"That's  what  I'll  trouble  you  to  answer,  sir." 

"My  bosses!  .  .  .  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me — " 
Mr.  Gavel  smote  his  brow.  "But  you  said  just  now 
you  were  looking  for  me!"  he  cried. 

167 


TRUE  TILDA 

"You  act  well,  sir,"  said  Dr.  Glasson  sternly.  "It  is 
your  profession.  But,  as  it  happens,  I  have  made  in- 
quiries along  the  canal,  and  am  proof  against  your 
bluster.  A  boat,  the  Success  to  Commerce — a  bargeman 
in  a  furred  overcoat — the  combination  is  unusual,  and 
not  (I  put  it  to  you)  likely  to  be  repeated  on  this  short 
stretch  of  waterway.  Confess,  Mr. — confess,  sir,  your 
game  is  up.  Kidnapping  is  an  ugly  offence  in  this  coun- 
try, and,  in  short,  I  advise  you  without  more  ado  to  hand 
over  the  two  children." 

Mr.  Gavel  leaned  back  against  a  crane  for  sup- 
port. 

"Children?  What  children?"  he  repeated,  star- 
ing. 

Clearly  here  was  some  hideous  blunder,  and  he  per- 
ceived at  length  that  the  person  addressing  him  in  no 
way  resembled  a  bargee. 

"  But — but  my  bosses  ?"  he  gasped. 

Just  then  the  sound  of  wheels  fell  on  his  ears,  and 
both  men  faced  about.  Mr.  Gavel  made  sure  that  this 
must  be  old  Holly  with  his  waggon.  But  no;  there  came 
around  the  corner  a  car  with  a  single  horse,  driven  by 
a  lad ;  and  the  lad,  pulling  up  before  the  store,  went  in, 
and  in  less  than  a  minute  reappeared  staggering  under 
a  heavy  burden. 

"But,  hullo!"  cried  Mr.  Gavel,  pulling  himself  to- 
gether, and  striding  toward  the  cart.  "It  is — "  he 
began  incredulously;  but  after  a  second  look  raised  his 

168 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  FURRED  COLLAR 

voice  in  triumphant  recognition  and  demand.  "My 
bosses!    "VVTiat  are  you  doing  with  my  hosses  ?" 

"Yours,  be  they?"  the  lad  answered.  "Well,  I'm 
takin'  'em  to  Henley,  as  you  sent  word." 

"7  sent  word  ?"  echoed  Mr.  Gavel. 

"Somebody  sent  word,"  the  lad  persisted.  "An'  in 
the  devil  of  a  'urry,  'cordin'  to  the  child  what  brought 
it.  But,  as  I  said  to  mother,  where's  the  sense  in  send- 
in'  messages  by  children  ?" 

"Children?" 

"There  was  two  on  'era — a  boy  an'  a  girl ' 

"Ah!"  interrupted  Dr.  Glasson.  "Describe  them, 
please." 

The  lad  scratched  his  head. 

"Mother  took  the  message.  I  was  indoors,  havin' 
tea,  an'  didn'  see  more  'n  a  glimpse.  But  here  comes 
father,"  he  added  briskly,  as  again  wheels  were  heard 
on  the  road,  and  old  Holly  drove  into  the  yard  with 
his  belated  waggon. 

"You  must  admit,  sir,"  said  Dr.  Glasson,  addressing 
Mr.  Gavel,  "that  circumstances  are  beginning  to  look 
too  strong  for  you." 

"Oh,   to  with  circumstances!"   retorted   Mr. 

Gavel.  "Mortimer's  in  this,  for  a  fiver.  I  don't  see 
how — I  don't  make  head  or  tail  of  it;  but  the  tail  you've 
got  hold  of  belongs  to  the  wrong  dog.  Kidnapping,  is 
it?  A  couple  of  children  you  want?  Suspect  me,  do 
you  ?    Well,  suspect  away.    I  don't  mind.    I've  got  my 

169 


TRUE  TILDA 

bosses;  and  when  we're  loaded  up  you  can  climb  on 
board  the  waggon,  if  you  like,  and  we'll  pay  a  call  on 
Mortimer.  I  bet  he's  your  man;  and  the  harder  you 
pinch  Mortimer  to  make  him  squeal,  the  better  you'll 
please  me." 

"Arthur  Miles,"  demanded  Tilda  in  a  harsh  whis- 
per,   "what  're  yer  doin'  'ere?" 

"Listening,"  answered  the  boy  simply. 

"I  'opes  yer  Hkes  it!  .  .  .  We're  in  a  tight  corner, 
Arthur  Miles,  an'  nothing  for  it  but  bolt  while  they're 
talkin'." 

"We  might  hide  here  in  the  dark — but,  of  course, 
you  know  best." 

"O'  course  I  do,"  Tilda  agreed.  "'Ide  'ere?  An' 
who's  to  warn  the  Mortimers?" 

She  stooped  and  again  caught  'Dolph  under  her 
arm.  Then  she  straightened  herself  up  and  stood 
listening  to  the  voices,  clearly  audible  from  the  en- 
trance of  the  store  below. 

"Tip-toe,  mind!  There's  on'y  a  board  between  us 
— and  quiet,  for  your  life!" 

They  stole  to  the  steps  and  paused  for  a  moment, 
peering  into  the  gloom.  Here,  too,  their  enemies' 
voices  were  audible,  but  around  the  corner  of  the 
store.  The  coast  was  clear.  They  crept  down  the 
steps  and  gained  the  road.  In  the  highway  Tilda 
drew  breath. 

170 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  FURRED  COLLAR 

"Things  look  pretty  bad,"  she  said;  "but  things 
ain't  altogether  so  bad  as  they  look.  Where  we're 
goin'  we'll  find  Bill;   an'  Bill's  a  tower  o'  strength." 

"  But  we  don't  even  know  the  way,"  objected  Arthur 
Miles. 

"No,  but  'Dolph  does.  'Ere,  'Dolph"— she  set 
down  the  dog — "you  got  to  lead  us  where  the  others 
went;  an'  at  the  end  of  it  there's  a  little  surprise  for 
yer.    'Ear?" 

'Dolph  heard,  shook  himself,  wagged  his  tail,  and 
padded  forward  into  the  gathering  darkness;  ran  a  little 
way  and  halted,  until  they  overtook  him.  He  under- 
stood. 

"If  they  catch  up  with  us  we  must  nip  into  a  gate- 
way," panted  Tilda. 

But  as  yet  there  was  no  sound  of  wheels  on  the  road 
behind.  They  passed  the  Holly's  cottage  and  stable, 
and  braved  the  undiscovered  country.  The  road 
twisted  between  tall  hedgerows,  black  in  the  shadow 
of  elms.  No  rain  had  fallen  for  many  days,  and  the 
powdered  dust  lay  so  thick  underfoot,  that  twice  or 
thrice  Tilda  halted — still  holding  the  boy's  hand — in 
doubt  if  they  had  wandered  off  upon  turf.  But  always, 
as  they  hesitated  thus,  'Dolph  came  trotting  back  to 
reassure  them. 

In  this  manner,  trotting  and  pausing,  they  had  cov- 
ered a  bare  three-quarters  of  a  mile  when  there  smote 
on  their   ears  a  throbbing   of   the   air — a    thud-thud 

171 


'       TRUE  TILDA 

which  Arthur  Miles  took  for  the  beat  of  a  factory  en- 
gine, so  Uke  it  was  to  the  echoes  that  had  floated  daily, 
and  all  day  long,  across  the  Orphanage  wall;  but 
Tilda,  after  hearkening  a  moment,  announced  it  to  be 
the  bass  of  Gavel's  steam  organ.  The  hoot  of  a  whistle 
presently  confirmed  her  guess. 

'Dolph  was  steering  them  steadily  toward  the 
sound;  and  a  glow  in  the  sky,  right  ahead  and  easily 
discernible,  would  have  guided  them  even  without  his 
help.    Tilda  recognised  that  glow  also. 

"And  the  best  is,  it  means  Bill,"  she  promised. 

But  they  did  not  catch  the  tune  itself  until  they  were 
close  upon  the  meadow.  At  the  top  of  a  rise  in  the 
road  it  broke  on  them,  the  scene  almost  simultaneously 
with  its  music;  and  a  strange  scene  it  was,  and  curi- 
ously beautiful— a  slope,  and  below  the  slope  a  grassy 
meadow  set  with  elms;  a  blaze  of  light  here  and  there 
in  the  open  spaces;  in  one  space  a  steam  roundabout 
revolving  with  mirrors,  in  another  the  soft  glow  of 
naphtha  lamps  through  tent  cloth;  glints  of  light  on 
the  boughs,  dark  shadows  of  foliage,  a  moving  crowd, 
its  murmur  so  silenced  by  music  and  the  beat  of  a  drum 
that  it  seemed  to  sway  to  and  fro  without  sound,  now 
pressing  forward  into  the  glare,  now  dissolving  into 
the  penumbra. 

Arthur  Miles  paused,  trembling.    He  had  never  seen 
the  like.    But  Tilda  had  recovered  all  her  courage. 

"This,"  she  assured  him,  "is  a  little  bit  of  all  right," 

172 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  FURRED  COLLAR 

and  taking  his  hand,  led  him  down  the  slope  and  posted 
him  in  the  shadow  of  a  thorn-bush. 

"Wait  here,"  she  enjoined;  and  he  waited,  while 
she  descended  cautiously  toward  the  roundabout  with 
its  revolving  mirrors. 

He  lost  sight  of  her.  He  lay  still  where  she  had 
commanded  him  to  lie,  watching  the  many  twinkling 
lights,  watching  the  roundabout  turn  and  flash  and 
come  to  a  stop,  watching  the  horse-play  of  boys  and 
maidens  as  one  set  clambered  off  laughing  and  another 
pressed  forward  into  their  places.  The  tune  droned  in 
his  ears,  came  to  an  end,  went  on  again.  He  drowsed 
to  its  recurrent  beat.  From  his  couch  in  the  wet  shadow 
he  gazed  up  at  the  stars  riding  overhead,  above  the 
elms. 

At  the  end  of  twenty  minutes  Tilda  stole  back  to 
him;  and,  softly  though  she  came,  her  footfall  woke 
him  out  of  his  dreams  with  a  start.  Yet,  and  though 
he  could  barely  discern  her  from  the  shadow  of  the 
thorn-bush,  he  knew  on  the  instant  that  she  brought 
disappointment. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"Everything's  the  matter.    Bill's  gone!" 


173 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ADVENTURE   OF  THE   PRIMROSE  FETE 

"Confusion  and  Exeunt." — Old  Stage  Direction. 

"Gone?"  echoed  the  boy  blankly. 

"  'Ad  a  row  with  Gavel  this  very  af t'rnoon.  Got  the 
sack,  with  a  week's  pay,  an'  packed  up  his  kit  after  tea 
an'  'ooked  it.  Bess  Burton  told  me  all  about  it,  knowin' 
me  an'  Bill  to  be  friends — she's  the  woman  sits  at  the 
pay-table  an'  gives  the  change.  'E  wouldn*  tell  no- 
body where  'e  was  goin'.  Ain't  cryin'  about  it,  are 
yer?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  as  she  peered  close  to  him  in 
the  darkness.  "Only  we'd  built  everything  on  Bill, 
hadn't  we?" 

Tilda  did  not  answer  this  question. 

"That's  the  way  with  Bill,"  she  said  loyally.  "Folks 
never  know  'is  worth  till  they  miss  'im.  Bess  allowed 
to  me  that  before  the  evenin's  out  Gavel  will  be  offerin' 
'is  shirt  to  'ave  'im  back — an'  Bess  don't  know  the 
worst,  neither.  They've  put  on  a  boy  to  work  the  en- 
gine, an'  Bill  'as  told  me  things  about  that  boiler  o' 
Gavel's  ...  I  couldn'  get  near  enough  to  read  the 

pressure,  but  by  the  way  'e  was  pilm'  in  coal " 

174 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  PRIMROSE  FETE 

She  broke  off  and  gazed  down  the  slope.  Even  as 
once  the  poet  Gray  looked  down  from  the  Windsor's 
heights  up  the  distant  prospect  of  Eton  College,  so  did 
she  regard  the  cluster  of  naphtha  lights  around  the  gal- 
loping horses  on  which,  unconscious  of  their  doom, 
the  little  victims  played, 

"But  there's  no  call  to  give  up  an'  cry  about  it,"  she 
resumed  bravely.  "We're  in  a  tight  place,  but  it's  our 
turn  to  play.  (That's  another  sayin'  o'  Bill's.  Oh, 
dear,  I  wish  you'd  known  'im!)  You  see,  we  know 
where  Glasson  is  an'  what  'e's  up  to,  an'  can  look  out 
accordin'.  That's  one  card  to  us.  An'  the  next  is,  I've 
seen  Sam  Bossom  an'  warned  'im.  'E  was  standin' 
outside  'is  show,  an'  not  darin'  to  go  in;  the  reason 
bein'  Mortimer  'ad  picked  up  a  girl  from  the  shootin' 
gallery  that  used  to  belong  to  'is  company,  and  'e  an' 
she  an'  Mrs.  Mortimer  are  doing  the  last  act  of  Othello 
life  size  an'  tuppence  coloured,  an'  Sam  says  'e  can't 
look  on  an'  command  'is  feelin's.  'E  was  considerable 
surprised  to  see  me,  an'  started  scoldin';  but  I  left  'im 
promisin'  that  'e'd  put  a  stop  to  Glasson  some'ow,  if  it 
had  to  be  on  the  point  o'  the  jaw;  an'  we're  to  nip 
across  an'  'ide  under  the  Grand  Stand  until  he  comes 
for  us  or  sends  word.    See  it  ?" 

She  pointed  across  to  a  crowded  platform  on  the 
farther  slope — a  structure  of  timber  draped  with  scar- 
let cloth,  and  adorned  with  palms  and  fairy  lamps. 
It  stood  on  the  rise  a  little  above  and  to  the  left  of 

175 


TRUE  TILDA 

the  roundabout,  the  flares  of  which  ht  up  the  faces  and 
gay  dresses  of  Sir  Elphinstone's  guests  gathered  there 
to  watch  the  show. 

The  two  children  made  down  the  slope  toward  it, 
very  cautiously  fetching  a  circuit  of  the  crowd.  But 
as  they  reached  the  bottom  of  the  dip,  on  a  sudden  the 
crowd  spread  itself  in  lines  right  across  their  path. 
Along  these  lines  three  or  four  men  ran  shouting,  with 
ropes  and  lanterns  in  their  hands;  and  for  one  horrible 
moment  it  flashed  on  Tilda  that  all  this  agitation  must 
be  the  hue-and-cry, 

"Clear  the  course!  Course,  course!  Just  startin' — 
the  great  Ladies'  Race!    Clear  the  course!" 

So  it  was  only  a  race,  after  all!  Tilda  gripped  the 
boy's  hand  tightly,  and  held  him  at  stand-still  some 
paces  in  rear  of  the  crowd.  But  of  this  caution  there 
was  little  need.  All  the  faces  were  turned  the  other 
way;  all  the  crowd  pressed  forward  against  the  ropes 
which  the  lantern-bearers  drew  taut  to  fence  off  the 
course.  A  pistol-shot  cracked  out.  Some  one  cried, 
"They're  off!"  and  a  murmur  grew  and  rolled  nearer 
— rising,  as  it  approached,  from  a  murmur  into  great 
waves — waves  of  Homeric  laugliter. 

The  race  went  by,  and  a  stranger  race  Tilda  had 
never  beheld.  The  competitors  were  all  women,  of  all 
ages — village  girls,  buxom  matrons,  withered  crones — 
and  each  woman  held  a  ladle  before  her  in  which  an 
egg  lay  balanced     Some  were  in  sunbonnets,  others  in 

176 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  PRIMROSE ,  FETE 

their  best  Sunday  headdress.  Some  had  kilted  their 
skirts  high.  Others  were  all  dishevelled  with  the 
ardour  of  the  race.  The  leader — a  gaunt  figure  with 
spoon  held  rigidly  before  her,  with  white-stockinged 
legs,  and  a  truly  magnificent  stride — had  come  and 
passed  before  Tilda  could  believe  her  eyes.  After  a 
long  interval  three  others  tottered  by  in  a  cluster.  The 
fifth  dropped  her  egg  and  collapsed  beside  it,  to  be 
hauled  to  her  feet  and  revived  by  the  stewards  amid 
inextinguishable  laughter  from  the  crowd.  In  all, 
fourteen  competitors  rolled  in,  some  with  empty  ladles, 
some  laughing  and  protesting  that  not  a  step  farther 
could  they  stir.  But,  long  before  the  crowd  closed  in, 
Tilda  saw  the  winner  breast  a  glimmering  line  of  tape 
stretched  at  the  end  of  the  course,  and  heard  the  shouts 
saluting  her  victory. 

"But  who  is  it?" 

"Miss  Sally!" 

"Miss  Sally,  if  ever  you  heard  the  like!  .  .  .  But 
there!  blood  will  tell." 

"It's  years  since  I  seen  her,"  said  a  woman.  "You 
don't  say!  Never  feared  man  nor  devil,  my  mother 
used  to  tell.  An'  to  run  in  a  race  along  with  the  likes  of 
Jane  Pratt!  But  you  never  can  reckon  wi'  the  gentry 
— what  they'll  do,  or  what  they  won't." 

"With  half  the  county,  too,  lookin'  on  from  the 
Grand  Stand!    I  bet  Sir  Elphinstone's  cussin'." 

"And  I'll  bet  Miss  Sally  don't  care  how  hard  he 

177 


TRUE  TILDA 

cusses.  She  could  do  a  bit  o'  that,  too,  in  her  time,  by 
all  accounts." 

"Ay,  a  monstrous  free-spoken  lady  always.  Swear- 
in'  don't  set  well  upon  womankind,  I  allow — not  as  a 
rule.  But  when  there's  blood,  a  damn  up  or  down— 
what  is  it?  For  my  part  I  never  knew  a  real  gentleman 
— or  lady  for  that  matter — let  out  a  downright  thumper 
but  I  want  to  cry,  'Old  England  for  ever!'" 

Finding  it  hopeless  to  skirt  the  crowd,  the  children 
made  a  plunge  through  it,  with  'Dolph  at  their  heels. 
But  as  the  crush  abated  and  they  breasted  the  farther 
slope,  Tilda  made  two  discoveries:  the  first,  that 
whereas  a  few  minutes  since  the  platform  had  held 
a  company  of  people  among  its  palms  and  fairy-lamps, 
it  was  now  deserted;  the  second,  that  the  mob  at  the 
winning-post  had  actually  shouldered  Miss  Sally,  and 
was  carrying  her  in  triumph  toward  the  platform,  with 
a  brass  band  bobbing  ahead  and  blaring  See,  the  Con- 
quering Hero  CoTnes! 

This  second  discovery  was  serious,  for  the  proces- 
sion's line  of  march  threatened  to  intercept  them. 
But  luckily  the  bandsmen,  who  set  the  pace,  moved 
slowly,  and  by  taking  hands  and  running  the  children 
reached  the  platform  in  time,  skirted  its  darker  side, 
and  dived  under  its  scarlet  draperies  into  the  cavernous 
darkness  beneath  the  boards. 

Here  they  drew  breath  and  Tilda  again  clutched  the 
dog.    They  were  in  time,  but  with  a  very  little  to  spare. 

178 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  PRIMROSE  FETE 

In  less  than  a  minute  the  mob  surged  all  around  the 
platform,  shouting,  hooraying: 

"Three  cheers  for  Miss  Sally!  The  Ham— where's 
the  Ham?  Give  Miss  Sally  the  Ham!  Silence  there — 
silence  for  Sir  Elphinstone!  Speech  from  Sir  Elphin- 
stone!    Speech!" 

By  and  by  the  hubbub  died  down  a  little,  but  still 
there  were  cries  of  "Sir  Elphinstone  for  ever!"  "Miss 
Sally  for  ever!"  and  "Your  sister's  won  the  ham,  sir!" 
A  high-pitched  voice  on  the  outskirts  of  the  throng 
began  to  chant: 

"For  really  it  was  a  remarkable  'am !" 

but  got  no  further,  being  drowned  first  by  sporadic, 
uneasy  laughter,  and  then  by  a  storm  of  hisses.  A 
tremendous  roar  of  laughter  followed,  and  this  (al- 
though Tilda  could  not  guess  it)  was  evoked  by  Miss 
Sally's  finding  the  ham  where  it  stood  derelict  on  a 
table  among  the  greenhouse  plants,  lifting  it  off  its  plate, 
and  brandishing  it  before  the  eyes  of  her  admirers. 

Tilda  could  see  nothing  of  this.  But  she  was  listen- 
ing with  all  her  might,  and  as  the  uproar  died  down 
again  she  caught  the  accents  of  a  man's  voice  attempt- 
ing a  speech. 

"My  friends,"  it  was  saying,  still  lifting  itself  higher 
against  the  good-humoured  interruptions,  "my  very 
good  friends — impossible  not  to  be  gratified — expres- 
sion of  good- will — venture  to  say,  on  the  whole — thor- 

179 


TRUE  TILDA 

oughly  enjoyable  afternoon.  My  sister" — (interrup- 
tions and  cheers  for  Miss  Sally) — "my  sister  begs  me 
to  say — highly  gratified — spirit  of  the  thing — but,  if  I 
may  plead,  some  degree  of  fatigue  only  natural — won't 
misunderstand  if  I  ask — disperse — cjuietly  as  possible 
— eh  ?  Oh,  yes.  '  God  save  the  King,'  by  all  means — 
much  obliged,  reminder — thank  you — yes,  certainly.*' 

Thereupon  the  band  played  the  national  Anthem, 
and  the  throng,  after  yet  another  outbreak  of  cheering, 
dispersed.  Followed  a  silence  in  the  darkness  under 
the  platform,  broken  only  by  the  distant  thudding 
bass  of  the  roundabout's  steam  organ;  and  then  be- 
tween the  boards  there  sounded  a  liquid  chuckle  much 
like  a  blackbird's,  and  a  woman's  voice  said: 

"Come,  my  dear  brother,  say  it  out!  The  Countess 
has  gone;  everybody  has  gone — she  must  have  stam- 
peded 'em,  by  the  way — and  as  the  Jew  said,  when  a 
thunderstorm  broke  on  the  picnic,  'Here's  a  fuss  over 
a  little  bit  of  ham!'  Well,  my  dear,  there  has  always 
been  this  about  Sally — a  man  can  swear  before  her 
sans  gene.  So,  to  give  you  a  start,  how  did  they  take 
it?" 

"If  after  these  years  I  didn't  know  you  to  be  incor- 
rigible— "  growled  the  voice  of  Sir  Elphinstone. 

"'For  ladies  of  all  ages,'  the  bills  said." 

"'Ladies!'" 

"I  am  quoting  your  own  bill — I'll  bet  a  fiver,  too, 
that  you  drafted  it.    Anyway,  I'm  rising  forty — though 

180 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  PRIMROSE  FETE 

I'd  defy  'era  to  tell  it  by  my  teeth.  And  since  they 
passed  me  for  a  lady — oh,  Elphinstone,  it  was  a  lark! 
And  I  never  thought  I  had  the  wind  for  it.  You  re- 
member Kipling — you  are  always  quoting  that  young 
man: 

"'The  dun  he  fled  like  a  stag  of  ten,  but  the  mare  like  a 
barren  doe.' 

Well,  that's  how  it  was:  'Like  a  barren  doe,'  I  give 
you  my  word." 

"My  dear  Sally!" 

"Shameless,  was  it?  My  dear  Elphinstone,  you've 
only  to  bill  it,  and  I'll  do  Lady  Godiva  for  'em  next 
year — at  my  time  of  life.  But  if  you  don't  like  Kip- 
ling, what  do  you  say  to  this  ? 

"'For  really  this  was  a  remarkable  Ham, 
A  twenty-pound  solid  Imperial  Ham, 
And  old  Mrs.  Liddicott 
Tucked  up  her  petticoat ' 

Which  reminds  me  that  the  crowd  specially  cheered  my 
white  Balbriggans.  They  are  out  of  date,  but  I  could 
never  fancy  my  legs  in  anything  but  white." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  reading?" 

"The  local  paper — Opposition.  Haven't  you  seen 
it?  There's  a  whole  column  in  verse  about  you,  El- 
phinstone; hits  you  off  to  a  hair,  and  none  so  badly 
written.     I'd  a  mind  to  show  it  to  the  Countess  and 

181 


TRUE  TILDA 

Lady  Mary,  but  slipped  it  under  the  table  cloth  and  at 
the  last  moment  forgot  it  in  your  eloquence.  You 
really  must  listen : 

"'Sir  Elphinstone  Breward 
He     rang    for     his     steward, 

And  "Damme,"  said  he,  looking  up 
from  his  letters, 
"This  side  of  the  county 
That  feeds  on  my  bounty 

's  forgotten  all  proper  respect  of  its  betters.'" 

"The  devil!"  interrupted  Sir  Elphinstone.  "It's 
that  dirty  little  radical,  Wrightson." 

"You  recognise  the  style?  It  gets  neater,  to  my 
thinking,  as  it  goes  on:" 

"'Agitators  and  pillagers 
Stir  up  my  villagers — 

Worst  of  those  fellows,  so  easily  led  1 
Some  haven't  food  enough, 
Else  it  ain't  good  enough, 

Others  object  to  sleep  three  in  a  bed. 

"'Deuce  take  their  gratitude! 
"Life"— that's  the  attitude— 
"Dullish  and  hard,  on  the  parish  half-crown!" 
Dull?    Give 'em  circuses! 
Hard  ?    Ain't  there  work'uses  ? 
What  can  they  see  to  attract  'em  to  town  ?' 

— Neat,  in  its  way,"  commented  Miss  Sally,  pausing. 
"Neat?    /  call  it  subversive  and  damnable!" 

182 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  PRIMROSE  FETE 
"  Listen  1    The  next  is  a  stinger : 


Something  quite  recent,  now: 
Drainage  ain't  decent,"  now : 
Damme,  when  was  it  ?    I've  known,  if 
you  please, 
Old  tenants,  better  ones, 
Crimean  veterans — 

Never  heard  they  required  w.c.'s.'" 

"My  dear  Sally!" 

"I  read  you  the  thing  as  it's  printed,"  said  Miss 
Sally,  with  another  liquid  chuckle. 

["Ain't  it  just  'eavingly?"  whispered  Tilda  below, 
clutching  the  boy's  arm  while  she  listened. 

"What?" 

"The  voice  of  'er.  If  I  could  on'y  speak  words 
that  way!"] 

"He  goes  on,"  pursued  Miss  Sally,  "to  tell  how  you 
and  Saunders — that's  your  new  bailiff's  name,  is  it 
not? — cooked  up  this  woman's  race  between  you  as  a 
step  toward  saving  the  Empire.  The  language  is 
ribald  in  places,  I  allow;  but  I  shouldn't  greatly  won- 
der if  that,  more  or  less,  is  how  it  happened.  And  any- 
way I've  come  to  the  rescue,  and  kept  the  Imperial 
Ham  in  the  family." 

"I  have  sometimes  thought,  Sally — ^if  you  will  for- 
give my  putting  it  brutally — that  you  are  half  a  Radical 
yourself." 

Thereat,  after  a  moment's  pause,  the  lady  laughed 

183 


TRUE  TILDA 

musically.  Almost  in  the  darkness  you  could  see  her 
throwing  back  her  head  and  laughing.  She  had  a 
noble  contralto  voice,  with  a  rich  mannish  purr  in  it. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Elphinstone.  But  even  so,  my 
excellent  brother,  you  might  understand  it — if  your 
estate  lay  in  the  west  and  ran  with  Miles  Chandon's." 

Tilda's  small  body  stiffened  with  a  gasp.  'Miles 
Chandon' — the  name  had  sounded  oji  her  hearing  dis- 
tinct as  the  note  of  a  bell.  There  was  no  mistake:  it 
hummed  in  her  ears  yet.  Or  was  it  the  blood  rushing 
to  her  ears  as  she  sat  bolt  upright  in  the  darkness,  listen- 
ing, breathing  hard  ? 

Sir  Elphinstone,  for  some  reason,  had  not  answered 
his  sister.  When  at  length  he  spoke,  it  was  in  a  changed 
tone,  at  once  careless  and  more  affectionate?" 

"  See  anything  of  Chandon  in  these  days  ?  " 

"Nothing  at  all;  or — to  put  the  same  thing  differ- 
ently— just  so  much  of  him  as  his  tenants  see.  We 
were  talking  of  tenantry.  Miles  Chandon  leaves  every- 
thing to  his  steward.  Now,  between  ourselves,  all 
stewards,  land  agents,  bailiffs — whatever  you  choose  to 
call  'em — are  the  curse  of  our  system,  and  Miles  Chan- 
don's happens  to  be  the  worst  specimen." 

"H'm,"  said  Sir  Elphinstone  reflectively.  "Poor 
devil!"  he  added,  a  few  moments  later,  and  then — 
Miss  Sally  giving  him  no  encouragement  to  pursue  the 
subject — "Ten  minutes  past  seven — the  car  will  be 
waiting.    What  do  you  say  to  getting  home  for  dinner  ?  " 

184 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  PRIMROSE  FETE 

"If  I  may  bring  the  Ham."  Miss  Sally  laughed  and 
pushed  back  her  chair.  "Wait  a  minute — we  will 
wrap  it  up  in  the  poem.  'Exit  Atalanta,  carrying  her 
Ham  in  a  newspaper' — how  deliciously  vulgar!  El- 
phinstone,  you  have  always  been  the  best  of  brothers ;  you 
are  behaving  beautifully — and — and  I  never  could  resist 
shocking  you;  but  we're  pretty  fond  of  one  another,  eh  ?" 

"I've  consistently  spoilt  you,  if  that's  what  you 
mean,"  he  grumbled. 

They  were  leaving  the  platform.  Tilda  whispered 
to  the  boy  to  take  hold  of  'Dolph. 

"And  I'm  goin'  to  leave  yer  for  a  bit."  She  edged 
past  him  on  hands  and  knees  toward  the  valance 
draperies.  "You  'card  what  she  said?  Well,  keep 
quiet  'ere  an'  don't  be  frightened.  If  Sam  comes,  tell 
'im  I'll  be  back  in  five  minutes." 

She  dived  out  beneath  the  valance,  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Miss  Sally  and  Sir  Elphinstone  making  their  way  at 
a  brisk  pace  through  the  crowd,  and  hurried  up  the 
slope  in  pursuit.  It  was  difficult  to  keep  them  in  sight, 
for  every  one  made  way  upon  recognising  them,  but 
showed  less  consideration  for  a  small  panting  child; 
and  the  head  of  the  field,  by  the  exit  gate,  was  packed 
by  a  most  exasperating  throng  pressing  to  admire  a 
giant  motor-car  that  waited  in  the  roadway  with  lamps 
blazing  and  a  couple  of  men  in  chauffeurs'  dress  keep- 
ing guard  in  attitudes  of  sublime  hauteur.  Sir  Elphin- 
stone, with  Miss  Sally  on  his  arm,  reached  the  car  while 

185 


TRUE  TILDA 

yet  Tilda  struggled  in  the  gateway.  A  policeman 
roughly  ordered  her  back.  She  feigned  to  obey,  and 
dropping  out  of  sight,  crawled  forth  past  the  police- 
man's boots,  with  her  head  almost  butting  the  calves  of 
a  slow-moving  yeoman  farmer.  Before  she  could 
straighten  herself  up  Sir  Elphinstone  had  climbed  into 
the  car  after  his  sister,  and  the  pair  were  settling  down 
in  their  rugs.  One  of  the  chauffeurs  was  already  seated ; 
the  other,  having  set  the  machine  throbbing,  was 
already  clambering  to  his  seat.  The  crowd  set  up  three 
parting  cheers,  and  Miss  Sally,  remembering  her  Ham, 
held  it  aloft  in  farewell. 

But  while  Miss  Sally  waved  and  laughed,  of  a  sud- 
den, amid  the  laughter  and  cheers  and  throbbing  of  the 
motor,  a  small  child  sprang  out  of  the  darkness  and 
clung  upon  the  step. 

"Lady!    Lady!" 

Miss  Sally  stared  down  upon  the  upturned  face. 

"Miles  Chandon,  lady? — where  does  'e  hve? — 
For  the  Lord's  sake " 

But  already  Sir  Elphinstone  had  called  the  order. 
The  car  shot  away  smoothly. 

"Elphinstone — a  moment,  please!  Stop!  The 
child " 


<<■ 


Eh?  .  .  .  Stop  the  car!  .  .  .  Anything  wrong?" 
Miss  Sally  peered  back  into  the  darkness. 
"There  was  a  child.  .  .  .  We  have  hurt  her,  I  fear. 
Tell  George  to  jump  down  and  inquire." 

186 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  PRIMROSE  FETE 

But  Tilda  was  not  hurt.  On  the  contrary,  she  was 
running  and  dodging  the  crowd  at  that  moment  as  fast 
as  her  hurt  leg  permitted.  For  in  the  press  of  it,  not 
three  yards  away,  by  the  light  of  the  side  lamp,  she  had 
caught  sight  of  Dr.  Glasson  and  Gavel. 

They  were  on  foot,  and  Gavel  had  seen  her,  she 
could  make  no  doubt.  He  was  bearing  down  straight 
upon  her. 

Not  until  she  had  run  fifty  yards  did  she  pluck  up 
courage  to  look  back.  Gavel  was  nowhere  in  sight. 
The  car  had  come  to  a  stand-still,  and  the  people  were 
yelling.  Was  it  after  her?  Was  this  the  hue-and- 
cry? 

They  were  certainly  yelling — and  behaving,  too,  in 
the  strangest  fashion.  They  seemed  by  one  impulse  to 
be  running  from  the  car  and  crowding  back  toward 
the  gate.  They  were  fighting — positively  fighting — 
their  way  into  the  field.  The  police  could  not  stop 
them,  but  were  driven  in  with  a  rush;  and  in  the  centre 
of  this  rush  Tilda  caught  sight  of  Gavel  again.  His 
back  was  turned  to  her.  He  was  struggling  for  admis- 
sion, and  like  a  maniac.    Glasson  she  could  not  see. 

Sir  Elphinstone  had  climbed  out  of  the  car,  and 
came  striding  back  demanding  to  know  what  was  the 
matter.  It  stuck  in  his  head  that  a  child  had  been 
hurt,  perhaps  killed. 

A  dozen  voices  answered : 

"The   roundabouts!"     "Explosion   at   the   round- 

187 


TRUE  TILDA 

abouts!"      "Engine    blown    up — twenty    killed    an* 
injured,  they  say!" 

"Explosion?  .  .  .  Nonsense!" 

Tilda  saw  him  thrust  his  way  into  the  gateway,  his 
tall  figure  towering  above  the  pack  there  as  he  halted 
and  gazed  down  the  hill.  In  the  darkness  and  con- 
fusion it  was  easy  enough  for  her  to  scramble  upon  the 
hedge  unobserved,  and  at  the  cost  of  a  few  scratches 
only.    From  the  top  of  the  hedge  she,  too,  gazed. 

The  roundabout  had  come  to  a  stand-still.  Around 
it,  at  a  decent  distance,  stood  a  dark  circle  of  folk. 
But  its  lights  still  blazed,  its  mirrors  still  twinkled. 
She  could  detect  nothing  amiss. 

What  had  happened?  Tilda  had  forgotten  Miss 
Sally,  and  was  anxious  now  but  for  Arthur  Miles. 
A  dozen  fears  suggested  themselves.  She  ought  never 
to  have  left  him.  .  .  . 

She  dropped  from  the  hedge  into  the  field,  and  ran 
downhill  to  the  platform.  It  stood  deserted,  the  last 
few  fairy-lamps  dying  down  amid  the  palms  and 
greenery.  In  the  darkness  at  its  rear  there  was  no  need 
of  caution,  and  she  plunged  under  the  valance  boldly. 

"Arthur!  Arthur  Miles!  Are  you  all  right?  .  .  . 
Where  are  you?" 

A  thin  squeal  answered  her,  and  she  drew  back,  her 
skin  contracting  in  a  shudder,  even  to  the  roots  of  her 
hair.  For,  putting  out  her  hand,  she  had  touched 
flesh — naked,  human  flesh. 

188 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  PRIMROSE  FETE 

"Wh — who  are  you?"  she  stammered,  drawing  back 
her  fingers. 

"I'm  the  Fat  Lady,"  quavered  a  voice.  "Oh,  help 
me!    I'm  wedged  here  and  can't  move!" 


18Q 


CHAPTER  XV 

ADVENTURE   OF  THE   FAT   LADY 

"Gin  a  body  meet  a  body." — Burns. 

"But  what's  'appened?"  demanded  Tilda,  recover- 
ing herself  a  Httle.  "And  'ow?  And  oh!  what's  be- 
come of  the  boy,  Arthur  Miles?" 

"There  is  a  boy,  somewhere  at  the  back  of  me,"  the 
Fat  Lady  answered;  "and  a  dog,  too.  You  can  talk  to 
them  across  me;  but  I  couldn't  move,  not  if  I  was 
crushin'  them  ever  so." 

Tilda  called  softly  to  the  prisoners,  and  to  her  relief 
Arthur  Miles  answered  out  of  the  darkness,  assuring 
her,  albeit  in  a  muffled  voice,  that  they  were  both  safe. 

"But  what's  the  meanin'  of  it?"  Tilda  demanded 
again. 

"The  igsplosion's  the  meanin'  of  it." 

"  But  there  ain't  been  no  explosh'n.  And  anyway," 
said  Tilda,  "  you  ain't  tellin'  me  you  been  blown  'ere  ?" 

"Igsplosion  or  no  igsplosion,"  replied  the  Fat  Lady 
incontestably,  "'ere  I  h'am." 

"Sure  yer  can't  move?"  Tilda  coaxed. 

At  this  the  Fat  Lady  showed  some  irritation. 

"I  ought  to  know  what  I'm  capable  of  by  this  time. 

190 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  FAT  LADY 

...  If  you  could  run  along  and  fetch  somebody  with 
a  tackle  and  pulley  now " 

"I  got  a  friend  comin'  presently.  'E's  quite  a  *andy 
young  feller,  an'  tender-hearted :  'e  won't  leave  yer  like 
this,  no  fear.  .  .  .  But,  o'  course,  it  '11  be  a  shock  to 
'im,  'appenin'  in  upon  us  an'  findin' — well,  so  much 
more  'n  'e  expected.  I'm  thinkin'  'ow  to  break  it  to 
'im  gently,  'ere  in  the  dark."  Tilda  considered  for  a 
while.  "  It  might 'elp  if  I  knew  yer  name.  'Twouldn' 
be  fair — would  it  ? — to  start  off  that  we'd  got  a  surprise 
for  'im,  an'  would  'e  guess  ?" 

"He'll  find  out  fast  enough,  when  he  strikes  a  light," 
said  the  Fat  Lady  between  resigned  despair  and  pro- 
fessional pride.  "But  my  name's  Mrs.  Lobb,  when 
you  introjuice  him." 

"Widow?" 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  suppose  it." 

"No,"  said  Tilda,  after  musing  a  moment;  "there 
ain't  no  real  reason,  o'  course.  On'y  I  thought —  An' 
you  not  mentionin'  a  nusband,  under  the  circum- 
stances." 

To  her  astonishment,  Mrs.  Lobb  gave  way  and 
shook  with  mountainous  sobs. 

"I'm  a  maiden  lady,"  she  confessed,  "and  I'll  con- 
ceal it  no  longer,  when,  God  knows,  I  may  be  lyin'  here 
punished  for  my  vanity.  .  .  .  But  'twasn't  all  vanity, 
neither:  it  sounded  more  comfortable.  If  it  had  been 
vanity,  I'd  ha'  chosen  Montmorency  or  St.  Clair — not 

191 


TRUE  TILDA 

Lobb.  Wouldn't  I  now?  ...  Of  course,  you  won't 
understand,  at  your  age;  but  there's  a  sort  of  sheltered 
feelin'.  An'  I'm  a  bundle  of  nerves.  You  should  see 
me,"  wound  up  Mrs.  Lobb  enigmatically,  "with  a 
mouse." 

But  at  this  moment  Tilda  whispered  "'Ush!"  Some 
one  was  stealthily  lifting  the  valance.  "Is  that  you, 
Sam?"  she  challenged. 

" Ay,  ay,  missie.    All  safe?" 

"And  snug.  .  .  .  Can  yer  risk  strikin'  a  match? 
Fact  is,  we  got  a  lady  friend  'ere,  an'  she  wants  yer  'elp 
badly." 

Sam  struck  a  sulphur  match. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  breathed,  staring  across  the  blue 
flame,  and  still  as  he  stared  his  eyes  grew  larger  and 
rounder. 

"'Er  name's  Lobb,"  explained  Tilda.  "I  oughter 
a- told  yer." 

"'Ow  did  it  'appen  ?"  asked  Sam  in  an  awed  voice. 

"Igsplosion,"  said  the  Fat  Lady. 

"  Is — is  there  goi7i'  to  be  one  ?" 

The  match  burned  low  in  Sam's  trembling  fingers, 
and  he  dropped  it  with  an  exclamation  of  pain. 

"There  was  one,"  said  the  Fat  Lady.  "At  Gavel's 
roundabouts.  Leastways,  the  folks  came  chargin'  into 
my  tent,  which  is  next  door,  cryin'  out  that  the  boiler 
was  blowin'  up.     I  travel  with  Gavel,  sir — as  his  Fat 

Lady " 

192 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  FAT  LADY 

"Oh!"    Sam  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Which,  when  I  heard  it,  sir,  and  the  outcries,  I 
burst  out  through  the  back  of  the  tent — bein'  a  timor- 
ous woman — and  ran  for  shelter.  My  fright,  sir,  I'll 
leave  you  to  imagine.  And  then,  as  I  crawled  under  the 
boards  here,  a  dog  flew  at  me — and  bein'  taken  una- 
wares— on  all-fours,  too — I  rolled  over  with  my  legs 
twisted — and  here  I  am  stuck.  There's  one  joist  pinnin' 
my  left  shoulder,  and  my  leg's  jammed  under  another; 
and  stir  I  cannot." 

Sam  lit  another  match. 

"I  was  fearin' — "  he  began,  but  broke  off.  "If  you 
could  manage,  ma'am,  to  draw  up  your  knee  an  inch 
or  so — or  if  you  wouldn'  mind  my  takin'  a  pull " 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Lobb.  "I'm  used  to  bein' 
pinched." 

Sam  gripped  the  knee-pan  firmly,  and  hauled. 
"O — ow!"  cried  Mrs.  Lobb.  But  the  wrench  had  set 
her  free  to  uncross  her  legs,  and  she  did  so,  murmuring 
her  gratitude. 

There  had  been  (Sam  now  explained)  a  false  alarm. 
In  the  midst  of  the  merry-making,  and  while  the 
roundabouts  were  crowded  and  going  at  full  speed,  the 
boy  in  charge  of  the  engine  had  taken  occasion  to  an- 
nounce to  the  lady  at  the  pay  table  that  his  pressure 
was  a  hundred  and  forty-seven,  and  what  had  taken 
the  safety-valve  he  couldn't  think.  Whereupon  the  lady 
at  the  pay  table  had  started  up,  scattering  her  coins, 

193 


TRUE  TILDA 

and  shrieked;  and  this  had  started  the  stampede. 
"Which,"  added  Sam  in  a  whisper  to  Tilda,  "was 
lucky  for  us  in  a  way;  becos  Glasson,  after  tacklin' 
Mortimer  be'ind  the  scenes  an'  threatenin'  to  have  his 
blood  in  a  bottle,  had  started  off  with  Gavel  to  fetch 
the  perlice.  An'  the  question  is  if  they  won't  be  watch- 
in'  the  gates  by  this  time." 

"  In  my  young  days,"  announced  the  Fat  Lady,  with 
disconcerting  suddenness,  "it  was  thought  rude  to 
whisper." 

Tilda  took  a  swift  resolution. 

"The  truth  is,  ma'am,  we're  in  trouble,  an*  'idin' 
'ere.  I  wouldn'  dare  to  tell  yer,  on'y  they  say  that 
people  o'  your — I  mean,  in  your " 

"Profession,"  suggested  the  Fat  Lady. 

"  — are  kind-'earted  by  nature.  I  belongs,  ma'am — 
leastways,  I  did — to  Maggs's  Circus — if  you  know 
it " 

"I've  heard  Maggs's  troupe  very  well  spoken  of. 
But,  as  you'll  understand,  I  do  very  litUe  visitin'." 

"I  was  'appy  enough  with  Maggs's,  ma'am.  But 
first  of  all  a  pony  laid  me  up  with  a  kick,  an*  then  I 
stole  Arthur  Miles  'ere  out  of  the  'Oly  Innercents " 

Tilda  broke  down  for  a  moment,  recovered  herself, 
and  with  sobs  told  her  story. 

For  a  while,  after  she  had  ended  it,  the  Fat  Lady  kept 
silence.  Sam,  breathing  hard,  still  doubtful  of  the  child's 
bold  policy,  feared  what  this  silence  might  portend. 

194 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  FAT  LADY 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  young  man,"  said  the  Fat  Lady 
at  length. 

Sam  reached  out  in  the  darkness,  and  grasped  hers 
fervently. 

"  I  didn't  ask  you  to  shake  it.  I  want  to  be  helped 
out  to  the  fresh  air,  and  then  these  children  '11  march 
straight  home  with  me  to  my  caravan." 

"But,"  stammered  Sam,  not  yet  clear  that  he  had 
found  an  ally,  "  — but  that's  leadin'  *em  straight  into 
Gavel's  arms!" 

"Young  man,"  replied  the  lady  austerely,  "it  leads 
into  no  man's  arms."  But  a  moment  later  she  dropped 
her  voice,  and  added  with  a  touch  of  pathos,  "I'm  the 
loneliest  woman  in  the  world,  outside  of  show  hours; 
and  if  you  thought  a  little  you  might  know  it." 

"  I  see,"  said  Sam  contritely. 

"And,  what's  more,  inside  my  own  caravan,  I've  my 
wits  about  me.  Outside  and  among  folks — well,  maybe 
you've  seen  an  owl  in  the  daylight  with  the  small  birds 
mobbin'  him.  .  .  .  Now  about  yourself  and  the  Mor- 
timers— from  this  child's  story  there's  no  evidence  yet 
to  connect  her  or  the  boy  with  either  of  you.  The  man 
Hucks  knows,  and  that  carrier  fellow  at  the  wharf  saw 
them  for  a  minute,  with  Mortimer  standin'  by.  But 
that's  no  evidence  for  the  police;  and,  anyway,  this 
Glasson  can't  touch  you  until  he  gets  hold  of  the  chil- 
dren. If  you'll  leave  it  to  me,  he  shan't  do  that  for 
twenty-four  hours.     And  now — isn't  it  time  you  were 

195 


TRUE  TILDA 

packing  up  your  show  ?  You'll  be  gettin'  back  to  the 
boat  to-night,  I  suppose  ?   What  about  the  Mortimers  ?  " 

Sam  explained  that  he  would  be  driving  back  with 
the  tent,  and  intended  to  sleep  on  board.  The  Morti- 
mers would  repose  themselves  at  a  small  public-house, 
"The  Vine  Leaf."  In  the  morning  they  would  join 
forces  again  and  proceed  to  Stratford.  Address  there: 
"The  Red  Cow." 

He  delivered  this  explanation  jerkily,  in  the  intervals 
of  lugging  the  lady  forth  from  her  durance.  Tilda, 
scrambling  forth  ahead  of  her,  noted  with  inexpressible 
relief  that  the  aspect  of  the  field  was  entirely  changed. 
The  crowd  had  melted  away,  the  flares  of  the  round- 
about were  extinguished,  and  a  faint  glow  of  lamplight 
through  canvas  told  where  the  Mortimers'  tent,  far  to 
the  left,  awaited  dismemberment.  Five  or  six  lanterns 
dotted  the  lower  slopes,  where  the  smaller  shows — the 
Aunt  Sally,  the  cocoanut  shies,  and  the  swing-boats — 
were  being  hastily  packed.  Overhead  in  a  clean  heaven 
rode  the  stars,  and  by  their  glimmer  the  children  saw 
their  new  protectress  draw  herself  up  in  all  her  Ama- 
zonian amplitude.  She  wore  a  low  bodice  of  pink,  with 
spangles,  and  a  spangled  skirt  descended  to  her  knees. 
Beneath  them  her  columnar  calves  were  bare  as  an  in- 
fant's. She  extended  an  arm,  and  pointed  toward  her 
caravan. 

"Bear  around  to  the  right,"  she  commanded.  "Keep 
a  look-out  on  me  when  I  get  to  the  van,  and  creep  up 

196 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  FAT  LADY 

as  quietly  as  you  can  when  I  reach  the  step  and  bend 
to  pull  up  my  socks.  Good-night,  young  man — one 
good  turn  deserves  another:  and  now  be  off,  you 
two.  .  ,  .  Yes,  you  may  bring  the  dog.  Only  I  hope 
he  doesn't  suffer  from  fleas,  for  a  flea  with  me  is  a 
serious  matter." 

They  ran  around,  gained  the  steps  in  safety,  and 
were  admitted  to  the  Fat  Lady's  virgin  bower.  It  lay 
in  darkness,  and  enjoining  them  to  stand  still  and  keep 
silence,  she  drew  the  blinds  discreetly  before  lighting 
her  lamp.  She  did  this  (Tilda  noted)  with  extreme 
deftness,  reaching  out  a  hand  to  a  dark  shelf  and  pick- 
ing up  the  match-box  as  accurately  as  though  she  saw 
it.  At  once,  too,  Tilda  noted  that  in  the  lamp's  rays 
the  whole  interior  of  the  caravan  shone  like  a  new  pin. 
A  stove  stood  at  the  end  facing  the  doorway,  and  be- 
side the  stove  a  closed  washstand  of  polished  teak. 
A  dressing-table,  a  wardrobe,  and  a  dresser-sideboard 
fitted  with  lockers  occupied  one  side;  along  the  other 
ran  a  couch  with  a  padded  back,  which,  let  down,  be- 
came a  mattress  and  converted  the  couch  into  a  bed. 
All  the  lockers  gleamed  with  brasswork;  all  the  dra- 
peries were  of  muslin  or  dimity,  immaculately  white; 
and  looking-glass  panelled  the  doors  of  every  cupboard. 
These  many  mirrors  caused  the  interior  to  appear  even 
fuller  of  the  Fat  Lady  than  it  actually  was.  They  re- 
flected her  from  every  angle,  and  multiplied  her  into 
a  crowd. 

197 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Dear  me!"  she  said,  glancing  around  on  these  re- 
flections, "I'll  have  to  turn  you  out  again  while  I  un- 
dress. But  that  won't  take  long,  and  you'll  be  safe 
enough  beneath  the  van." 

So  after  providing  them  with  a  hunk  of  cake  apiece 
from  one  of  the  sideboard  lockers,  and  peeping  forth  to 
make  sure  the  coast  was  clear,  she  dismissed  them  with 
instructions  to  creep  into  the  darkness  under  the  steps, 
and  there  lie  quiet  until  she  summoned  them. 

Ten  minutes  later  she  leaned  forth  again  and  called 
"Coo-ee!"  very  softly,  and  they  returned  to  find  her  in 
the  white  bed,  recumbent  in  a  coquettish  nightgown. 
She  had  folded  and  stowed  her  day  garments  away — 
Tilda  could  not  imagine  where — and  a  mattress  and 
rugs  lay  on  the  floor,  ready  spread  for  the  children. 
Nor  was  this  all.  On  the  sideboard  stood  a  plateful 
of  biscuits,  and  on  the  stove  a  spirit-lamp,  with  a  kettle 
already  beginning  to  sing,  and  a  teapot  and  three  cups 
and  saucers. 

With  a  turn  of  the  hand,  scarcely  stirring  from  her 
recumbent  posture,  the  Fat  Lady  closed  the  door  and 
shot  its  small  brass  bolt.  Then  with  a  quick  series  of 
movements,  reaching  forward  as  soon  as  the  kettle 
boiled,  she  filled  the  teapot,  emptied  the  rest  of  the 
boiling  water  into  the  flashing  nickel  basin  of  the 
washstand,  set  down  the  ketde,  turned  and  shut  a  cold- 
water  tap,  and  invited  the  children  to  wash  before 
supping. 

198 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  FAT  LADY 

The  aroma  of  the  tea — real  China  tea  it  was — and  the 
fragrance  of  scented  soap — ^genuine  Old  Brown  Wind- 
sor— went  straight  through  their  senses  to  the  children's 
hearts.  In  all  their  lives  they  had  known  no  experience 
so  delicious. 

Mrs.  Lobb  noted  with  approval  that  the  boy  drew 
aside  and  yielded  Tilda  the  first  turn  at  the  basin. 
When  his  came  she  watched  him,  and  by  and  by  ob- 
served, "He  washes  like  a  gentleman,  too." 

"Not,"  she  explained  as  the  children  drank  their 
tea — "not  that  I  have  ever  seen  a  gentleman  wash. 
But  women  know  what's  dainty."  Here  she  fell  into 
a  muse.  "I've  often  pictered  Mr.  Lobb  washing. 
These  little  things  make  so  much  difference."  She 
sighed.  "Well  now,  if  you've  finished  your  supper, 
we'll  say  our  prayers  and  get  to  sleep." 

"Prayers?"  queried  Tilda. 

As  a  rule,  when  anything  happened  outside  her  ex- 
perience she  sat  quiet  and  let  it  happen,  reserving 
criticism.  But,  chancing  to  look  up,  she  had  seen  the 
boy  wince  at  the  word. 

Mrs.  Lobb,  less  observant,  had  taken  down  a  Bible 
from  the  shelf  above  her.    She  opened  it  and  read : 

"'And  they  departed  from  Kibroth-hattaavah,  and  en- 
camped at  Hazeroth.  And  they  departed  from  Hazeroth, 
and  pitched  in  Rithmah.  And  they  departed  from  Rith- 
mah,  and  pitched  at  Rimmoth-parez ' 

"It  don't  always  apply,"  she  explained,  breaking  off, 

199 


TRUE  TILDA 

"but  takin'  it  straight  through,  you'd  be  surprised  how 
often  it  sends  you  to  sleep  with  a  bit  of  comfort." 

She  read  half  a  dozen  verses,  closed  the  book,  and 
recited  the  Lord's  Prayer: 

"*  ...  For  Thine  is  the  kingdom,  the  power,  and 
the  glory,  forever  and  ever.  Amen.'  Now  we'll  go  to 
sleep,  and  don't  be  frightened  when  they  harness  up  in 
an  hour  or  two.  We'll  be  in  Stratford  before  daybreak. 
Good  night,  my  dears — you  may  reach  up  and  give  me 
a  kiss  apiece  if  you're  so  minded;  and  I  hope  to  good- 
ness you  don't  snore!" 

When  they  awoke,  sure  enough  Mrs.  Lobb  announced 
that  they  had  reached  Stratford.  In  their  dreams  they 
had  felt  the  van  moving;  but  now  it  had  come  to  a 
stand-still,  and,  peeping  forth,  they  saw  that  it  stood  in 
a  broad  green  meadow  and  but  a  little  way  from  a 
river.  There  were  swans  on  the  river,  paddling  about 
or  slowly  drifting  in  the  pale  light;  and  across  the  river 
they  saw  many  clustered  roofs,  with  a  church  spire  to 
the  left  set  among  noble  elms. 

"That's  where  Shakespeare's  buried,"  said  the  Fat 
Lady;  "and  the  great  brick  building  yonder — to  the 
right,  between  us  and  the  bridge — that's  the  Memorial 
Theatre  where  they  act  his  plays.  There's  his  statue, 
too,  beside  the  water,  and  back  in  the  town  they  keep 
the  house  he  was  bom  in.  You  can't  get  away  from 
Shakespeare  here.    If  you  buy  a  botde  of  beer,  he's  on 

200 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  FAT  LADY 

the  label;  and  if  you  want  a  tobacco-jar,  they'll  sell 
you  his  head  and  shoulders  in  china,  with  the  bald  top 
fitted  for  a  cover.    It's  a  queer  place,  is  Stratford." 

The  boy  gazed.  To  him  it  was  a  marvellous  place ;  and 
somewhere  it  held  his  secret — the  secret  of  the  Island. 

"Talkin'  of  beer,"  said  Tilda,  "we  mustn'  forget 
Sam  Bossom.    At  the  'Red  Cow,'  he  said." 

"But  that  won't  be  till  evening,"  the  Fat  Lady 
warned  her.  "And  meantime  what  am  I  to  do  with 
you  ?  You  can't  hide  here  all  day :  for  one  reason,  I  got 
to  get  up  and  dress.  And  it  may  be  dangerous  in  the 
town  for  you  before  nightfall.  Luckily,  Gavel  don't 
know  either  one  of  you  by  sight;  but  there's  the  chance 
of  this  Glasson  havin'  come  along  with  him.  For  all  I 
know  Gavel  may  have  given  him  a  shake-down,  and 
Gavel's  is  the  next  van  but  one." 

The  children  implored  her  to  let  them  forth  before 
the  rest  of  the  show-people  awoke.  They  would  fend 
for  themselves,  Tilda  engaged,  and  remain  in  hiding 
all  day  along  the  river-bank  below  the  town.  Really, 
when  the  Fat  Lady  thought  it  over,  this  appeared  the 
only  feasible  plan.  But  first  she  insisted  on  cooking  them 
a  breakfast  of  fried  sausages  and  boiled  eggs,  which  she 
managed  to  do  without  stirring  from  her  couch,  directing 
Tilda  how  to  light  the  stove,  and  where  to  find  the  uten- 
sils and  the  provender;  and  next  she  packed  a  basket  for 
them  with  a  loaf  of  bread  and  some  slices  of  cold  ham. 

Thus  furnished,  they  bade  her  good-bye  for  the  day, 

201 


TRUE  TILDA 

left  the  dubious  'Dolph  in  her  charge,  and  tip-toeing 
past  the  rear  of  the  caravan  where  slept  the  dreaded 
Gavel,  gained  the  meadow's  end,  passed  a  weed-grown 
ruinated  lock  below  the  churchyard,  and  struck  into  a 
footpath  that  led  down-stream  between  the  river  and 
a  pretty  hanging  copse.  Below  this  a  high-road  crossed 
the  river.  Following  it,  they  passed  over  a  small  tribu- 
tary stream  that  wound  between  lines  of  pollard  wil- 
lows, and  so  headed  off  to  their  right  and  regained  the 
Avon's  bank. 

The  boy  led.  It  seemed  that  the  westward-running 
stream  called  to  him,  and  that  his  feet  trod  to  the  tune 
of  it.  Tilda  remembered  this  later.  He  was  always 
a  silent  boy,  and  he  gave  no  explanation;  but  she  saw 
that  the  running  water  woke  a  new  excitement  in  him. 
So  long  as  they  had  followed  the  stagnant  canal  he  had 
been  curious,  alert,  inquisitive  of  every  bend  and  bush. 
It  was  as  if  he  had  understood  water  by  instinct,  and 
yet  the  water  had  hitherto  baffled  and  disappointed 
him.  Now  it  ran,  and  he  ran,  too.  She  had  much  ado 
to  keep  pace  with  him.  By  and  by  she  halted  by  a 
clump  of  willows  and  seated  herself,  announcing  hypo- 
criticallv  that  she  was  tired. 

He  heard,  and  came  back  contritely. 

"I  forgot,"  he  said.  "What  has  become  of  your 
crutch?" 

"  I  left  it  be'ind  yesterday,  in  the  boat.  There  wasn' 
no  time  to  go  back  for  it." 

202 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  FAT  LADY 

"I  am  very  sorry." 

Tilda's  conscience  smote  her. 

"There  ain't  no  reason  to  fret  about  me,"  she  said 
reassuringly.  "But  what's  taken  you?  There's  no 
catchin'  up  with  the  water,  however  fast  you  run." 

"It  leads  down  to  the  Island.  It  must"  he  an- 
nounced, conning  the  stream. 

"Think  so?" 

She,  too,  conned  it,  but  could  read  nothing  of  his 
faith  in  the  wimpled  surface. 

"Sure." 

The  light  in  his  eyes  impressed  if  it  did  not  convince 
her. 

"Well,  maybe  we'll  'ave  a  try  to-morrow,  "she  con- 
ceded after  a  while.  "But  business  is  business.  We 
must  get  back  to  Stratford  an'  consult  Sam  Bossom. 
And  then  there's  a  letter  to  be  written  to  'Ucks.  I 
promised  'ira,  you  know." 

They  shared  their  meal  by  the  river  bank;  and 
when  it  was  eaten,  sat  for  a  time  on  the  scooped-out 
brink  while  Avon  ran  at  their  feet — Arthur  Miles 
searching  again  in  the  thumbed  pages  of  The  Tempest 
for  a  hint  that  might  perchance  have  escaped  him; 
Tilda  as  sedulously  intent  on  a  page  of  a  ladies'  news- 
paper in  which  the  bread  had  been  wrapped. 

It  informed  her,  under  the  heading  of  Answers  to 
Correspondents  by  "Smart  Set,"  of  an  excellent  home 
for  Anglo-Indian  children  (gravel  soil),  of  a  new  way 

203 


TRUE  TILDA 

to  clean  Brussels  lace,  of  the  number  of  gowns  required 
in  these  days  for  a  week-end  visit,  of  a  scale  of  tips  for 
gamekeepers.  It  directed  her  to  a  manicure,  and  in- 
structed her  how  to  build  a  pergola  for  an  Italian  gar- 
den, supposing  that  she  lived  in  Suffolk  and  could 
spare  half  an  acre  facing  east.  She  drank  in  all  this 
information  with  an  impartial  appetite. 

'"What  a  favourite  it  is  still,  the  mushroom  *at!'" 
she  spelled  out  slowly.  "'  W'y,  the  other  day,  at  Messrs. 
Freebody  and  Williams's  in  Regent  Street,  there  it  con- 
fronted me  again  in  a  whole  bevy  of  new  model  shapes. 
The  medium,  in  brown  Ottoman  silk,  fronted  with 
wings  of  fine  brown  or  blue  lustre,  is  quite  ridiculously 
cheap  at  27s.  6d.  And  a  large  hat  in  black  satin, 
swathed  with  black  chiffon  in  which  lurks  just  a  touch 
of  real  ermine,  asks  you  no  more  than  35s.  9d.  Truly 
age  cannot  wither  nor  custom  stale  the  infinite  variety 
of  the  mushroom.'" 

"What  nonsense  are  you  reading?"  the  boy  de- 
manded. 

"Nonsense?"  echoed  Tilda.  "What's  nonsense? 
It's — it's  'eavingly — and  anyway  it  ain't  no  farther  off 
than  your  Island." 

They  resumed  their  way,  slightly  huflfed  one  with 
another;  passed  a  group  of  willows;  and  came  to  a 
halt,  surprised  and  irresolute. 

In  the  centre  of  a  small  sunny  clearing  they  beheld 

204 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  FAT  LADY 

a  tent,  with  the  Utter  of  a  camp  equipage  scattered  on 
the  turf  about  it;  and  between  the  tent  and  the  river, 
where  shone  the  flank  of  a  bass-wood  canoe  moored 
between  the  alders,  an  artist  had  set  up  his  easel.  He 
was  a  young  man,  ta  1  and  gaunt,  and  stood  back  a 
little  way  from  his  canvas  with  paint  brush  held  at  a 
slope,  while  across  it  he  studied  the  subject  of  his 
picture — a  gray  bridge  and  the  butt  end  of  a  gray 
building,  with  a  sign-board  overtopping  the  autumnal 
willows. 

For  a  few  seconds  the  children  observed  him  in 
silence.  But  some  sound  must  have  warned  him;  for 
by  and  by  he  turned  a  quick,  eager  face,  and  caught 
sight  of  them. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  scanning  them  rapidly  up  and 
down.  "The  very  thing! — that  is  to  say" — after  a 
second  and  more  prolonged  scrutiny — "the  boy.  He 
just  fills  the  bill.  'Youthful  Shakespeare  Mews  his 
Mighty  Youth.  The  scene:  Binton  Bridges,  beside 
Avon.'" 

"Binton  Bridges?"  echoed  Tilda,  and  walked  for- 
ward to  scan  the  sign-board. 

"I  must  put  that  down,"  said  the  artist,  drawing 
out  a  note-book  and  pencil.  "Ignorance  of  Juvenile 
Population  in  Respect  of  Immediate  Surroundings. 
Implied  Reproach  against  Britain's  Primary  Schools." 

But  by  this  time  the  girl  was  standing  under  the 
sign-board  and  staring  up  at  it.     Four  figures  were 

205 


TRUE  TILDA 

depicted  thereon  in  gay  colours — a  king,  a  priest,  a 
soldier,  and  a  John  Bull  farmer.  Around  them  ran 
this  legend : 

"rule  all, 

PRAY   ALL, 
FIGHT   ALL, 
PAY   ALL." 

"Do  you  'appen  to  know,  sir,"  she  asked,  coming 
back,  "if  there's  a  young  woman  employed  'ere?" 

"There  is,"  answered  the  artist.  " I  happen  to  know, 
because  she  won't  let  me  paint  her,  although  I  offered 
ten  dollars." 

"That's  a  good  sign,"  said  Tilda. 

"Oh,  is  it,  now?"  he  queried,  staring  after  her  as 
she  marched  boldly  toward  the  house  and  was  lost  to 
sight  between  the  willow-stems. 


206 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ADVENTURES   OF   THE   "fOUR  ALLS"   AND   OP  THE 
CELESTIAL    CHEMIST 

"'Friend  Sancho,'  said  Don  Quixote,  'this  Island  that  I 
promised  you  can  neither  stir  nor  /?(/.'"— Cervantes. 

"Now  what  precisely  did  your  sister  mean  by  that?" 
asked  the  artist,  withdrawing  his  gaze  and  fixing  it  on 
Arthur  Miles. 

"She  is  not  my  sister,"  said  the  boy. 

The  artist — he  was  an  extraordinarily  tall  young 
man,  with  a  keen  hatchet  face,  restless  brown  eyes, 
and  straight  auburn  hair  parted  accurately  in  the 
middle — considered  for  a  moment,  then  nodded. 

"That's  so.  It  comes  out,  soon  as  you  talk.  .  .  . 
Well,  see  here  now,  we'll  start  right  away.  That's  how 
Art  hits  me — once  I  take  hold  of  a  notion,  I  must  sling 
in  and  get  going.  It's  my  temperament;  and  what's 
Art — right  there,  please — what's  Art,  after  all,  but 
expressed  temperament  ?  You  catch  the  idea  ?  You're 
the  Infant  Shakespeare,  the  youth  to  fortune  and  to 
fame  unknown: 

"'His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch.* 

Stretch  what  you  have  of  it: 

"'And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by.'" 

207 


TRUE  TILDA 

"But  I  don't  want  you  to  paint  me,"  rebelled  the  boy. 

"Goodness!     Why  not?" 

For  a  moment  or  two  Arthur  Miles  faced  the  ques- 
tion almost  sullenly. 

"I  don't  want  my  likeness  taken,"  he  explained  at 
length. 

"My  young  friend,"  the  artist  cheerfully  assured 
him,  "if  that's  your  trouble,  dismiss  it.  I  can't  paint 
a  likeness  for  nuts." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"Well,  I  should  say  I  have  a  grounded  expectation, 
seeing  that  I  claim  a  bigger  circle  of  friends  than  any 
other  fellow  that  ever  studied  with  Carolus;  and  apart 
from  their  liking  for  me,  their  conviction  that  never, 
under  any  circumstances,  could  I  catch  a  likeness  is 
about  the  only  thing  they  have  in  common.  I  don't 
say  it's  the  cement  of  their  friendship;  but,  anyway, 
it's  an  added  tie." 

"If  Tilda  doesn't  mind " 

The  boy  hesitated  with  a  glance  over  his  shoulder. 

"We'll  consult  the  lady  when  the  portrait's  finished. 
If  she  recognises  you,  I'll  destroy  the  canvas;  and  I 
can't  say  fairer  than  that.  .  .  .  No,  I  shan't  regret  it. 
We'll  call  it  an  offering  to  the  gods.  .  .  .  And  now," 
pursued  the  young  man,  flinging  in  a  char  oal  outline  in 
fiery  haste,  "we'll  consider  the  brakes  open." 

It  took  him  perhaps  thirty  seconds  to  block  in  the 
figure,  and  at  once  he  fell  to  mixing  his  palette,  his 

208 


"FOUR  ALLS"  AND  CELESTIAL  CHEMIST 

fingers  moving  with  a  nervous,  delicate  haste.  He 
held  a  brush  between  his  teeth  during  the  operation; 
but  no  sooner  was  it  over,  and  the  gag  removed,  than 
his  speech  began  to  gush  in  quick,  impetuous  jerks, 
each  jerk  marking  an  interval  as,  after  flinging  a  fresh 
splash  of  paint  upon  the  canvas,  he  stepped  back  half 
a  pace  to  eye  its  effect. 

"That's  my  theory — what's  Art  but  temperament? 
expressed  temperament  ?  Now  I'm  a  fellow  that  could 
never  stick  long  to  a  thing — never  in  my  life.  I've  not 
told  you  that  I'm  American,  by  the  way.  My  name's 
Jessup — George  Pulteney  Jessup,  of  Boise  City,  Idaho. 
My  father — he's  about  the  most  prominent  citizen  in 
the  State  of  Idaho.  You  don't  get  any  ways  far  west 
of  the  Rockies  before  you  bump  against  Nahum  P. 
Jessup — and  you'll  be  apt  to  hurt  yourself  by  bumping 
too  hard.  .  .  .  My  father  began  by  setting  it  down  to 
fickleness.  He  said  it  came  of  having  too  much  money 
to  play  with.  Mind  you,  he  didn't  complain.  He  sent 
for  me  into  his  ofRce,  and  'George,'  he  said,  'there's 
some  fathers,  finding  you  so  \o\sitile,  would  take  the 
line  of  cutting  down  your  allowance;  but  that's  no  line 
for  me.  To  begin  with,'  he  said,  'it  would  set  up  a  con- 
straint between  us,  and  constraint  in  my  family  relations 
is  what,  God  helping  me,  I'll  never  allow.  And  next, 
whatever  1  saved  on  you  I'd  just  have  to  reinvest,  and 
I'm  over-capitalised  as  it  is — you'd  never  guess  the 
straits  I'm  put  to  daily  in  keeping  fair  abreast  of  fifteen 

209 


TRUE  TILDA 

per  cent.,  which  is  my  notion  of  making  two  ends  meet. 
And,  lasdy,  it  ain't  natural.  If  a  man's  born  volati/e, 
voVdtile  he  is;  and  the  sensible  plan,  I  take  it,  is  to  lean 
your  ear  to  Nature,  the  Mighty  Mother,  and  find  a 
career  that  has  some  use  for  that  kind  of  temperament. 
Now,'  said  my  father,  'I  know  a  little  about  most 
legitimate  careers,  from  ticket-punching  up  to  lobby- 
ing, and  there's  not  one  in  which  a  man  would  hand  in 
testimonials  that  he  was  yolatile.  But,'  says  my  father, 
*  what  about  Art  ?  I've  never  taken  stock  of  that  occu- 
pation, myself:  I  never  had  time.  But  I  remember 
once  in  New  York  going  to  a  theatre  and  seeing  Booth 
act  William  Shakespeare's  Macbeth;  and  not  twenty 
minutes  later,  after  all  the  ghosts  and  murderings,  I 
happened  into  a  restaurant,  and  saw  the  same  man 
drinking  cocktails  and  eating  Blue  Point  oysters — 
with  twice  my  appetite,  too.  And  Booth  was  at  the 
very  top  of  his  profession.'" 

"Yes,"  said  Arthur  Miles,  by  this  time  greatly  inter- 
ested.   "That's  like  Mr.  Mortimer,  too." 

"Mortimer?"  Mr.  Jessup  queried;  and  then,  get- 
ting no  answer,  "Is  he  an  actor?" 

The  boy  nodded. 

"A  prominent  one?" 

"I — I  believe  so.    I  mean,  he  says  he  ought  to  be." 

"I'd  like  to  make  his  acquaintance.  It's  queer,  too, 
a  child  like  you  knowing  about  actors.  What's  your 
name?" 

210 


"FOUR  ALLS"  AND  CELESTIAL  CHEMIST 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Arthur  Miles,  with  another 
glance  in  the  direction  of  the  inn,  "that  Tilda  would 
like  me  to  tell." 

The  young  artist  eyed  him. 

"Well,  never  mind;  we  were  talking  about  my 
father.  That's  how  he  came  to  send  me  to  Paris  to 
study  Art.  And  since  then  I've  done  some  thinking. 
It  works  out  like  this,"  he  pursued,  stepping  back  and 
studying  his  daub  between  half-closed  eyes,  "the  old 
man  has  struck  ore  as  usual.  I  never  knew  a  mind  fuller 
of  common  sense — just  homely  common  sense — but  he 
hadn't  the  time  to  work  it.  Yet  it  works  easy  enough 
if  you  keep  hold  of  the  argument.  The  Old  Masters 
— we're  always  having  it  dinned  into  us — didn't  hustle; 
they  mugged  away  at  a  Saint,  or  a  Virgin  and  Child, 
and  never  minded  if  it  took  'em  half  a  lifetime.  Well, 
putting  aside  their  being  paid  by  time  and  not  by  the 
job — because  comparisons  on  a  monetary  basis  ain't 
fair,  one  way  or  another — for  better  or  worse,  Carpaccio 
hadn't  a  dad  in  the  Oil  Trust— I  say,  putting  this  aside, 
the  credit  goes  to  their  temperament,  or,  if  you  like, 
part  to  that  and  part  to  their  environment.  It  wasn't 
in  them  to  hustle :  they  felt  no  call  for  it,  but  just  sat  and 
painted  and  took  their  meals  regular.  Now  that  spa- 
cious holy  sauntering  don't  figure  in  my  bill.  When  I 
get  hold  of  a  notion — same  as  this  Infant  Shakespeare, 
f'r  instance — it's  apt  to  take  hold  on  me  as  a 
mighty  fine  proposition;    and  then,  before  I  can  slap 

211 


TRUE  TILDA 

it  on  canvas,  the  thing's  gone,  faded,  extinct,  like  a 
sunset."  He  paused  and  snapped  his  fingers  expres- 
sively. "I  paint  like  Hades,  but  it  beats  me  by  a  head 
every  time. 

"  — And  what's  the  reason  ?  I'm  fickle,  you  say. 
But  that's  my  temperament,  and  before  a  man  kicks 
against  that  he  ought  to  be  clear  whether  it's  original 
sin  or  the  outcome  of  his  environment.  See  what  I 
mean?" 

Arthur  Miles  was  too  truthful  to  say  that  he  did. 
Indeed,  he  understood  next  to  nothing  of  this  harangue. 
But  the  young  American's  manner,  so  eager,  so  boyishly 
confidential,  set  him  at  his  ease;  while  beneath  this 
voluble  flow  of  talk  there  moved  a  deeper  current  for 
which,  all  unconsciously,  the  child's  spirit  thirsted. 
He  did  not  realise  this  at  all,  but  his  eyes  shone  while 
he  listened. 

"I'll  put  it  this  way:  We're  in  the  twentieth  century. 
Between  the  Old  Masters  and  us  something  has  hap- 
pened. What?  Why  Speed,  sir — modern  civilisation 
has  discovered  Speed.  Railways — telegraphs — 'phones 
— elevators — automobiles — Atlantic  records.  These  in- 
ventions, sir" — -here  as  will  happen  to  Americans  when 
they  philosophise,  Mr.  Jessup  slipped  into  an  oratorical 
style — "have  altered  man's  whole  environment.  Ve- 
lasquez, sir,  was  a  great  artist,  and  Velasquez  could 
paint,  in  his  day,  to  beat  the  band.  But  I  argue  that, 
if  you  resurrected  Velasquez  to-day,  he'd  have  to  alter 

212 


"FOUR  ALLS"  AND  CELESTIAL  CHEMIST 

his  outlook,  and  everything  along  with  it  right  away 
down  to  his  brush  work.  And  I  go  on  to  argue  that  if 
I  can't  paint  like  Velasquez — which  is  a  cold  fact — it's 
equally  a  fact  that,  if  I  could,  I  oughtn't.  Speed,  sir: 
that's  the  great  proposition — the  principles  of  Speed  as 
applied  to  the  Fine  Arts " 

Here  he  glanced  toward  the  clearing  between  the 
willows,  where  at  this  moment  Tilda  reappeared  in  a 
hurry,  followed — at  a  sedater  pace — by  a  young  woman 
in  a  pale  blue  sun  bonnet. 

"Oh,  Arthur  Miles,  it's  just  splendid!"  she  an- 
nounced, waving  a  letter  in  her  hand.  And  with  that, 
noting  the  boy's  attitude,  she  checked  herself  and 
stared  suspiciously  from  him  to  the  artist.  "Wot  yer 
doin'  to  'im?"  she  demanded. 

"Painting  his  portrait." 

"Then  you  didn't  ought,  an'  'e'd  no  business  to 
allow  it!" 

She  stepped  to  the  canvas,  examined  it  quickly,  anx- 
iously, then,  with  a  puzzled  frown  that  seemed  to  relax 
in  a  sigh  of  relief: 

"Well,  it  don't  seem  as  you've  done  much  'arm  as 
yet.    But  all  the  same,  you  didn't  ought." 

"I  want  to  know  what's  splendid?"  the  artist  in- 
quired, looking  from  her  to  the  girl  in  the  sun  bonnet, 
who  blushed  rosily. 

Tilda,  for  her  part,  looked  at  Arthur  Miles  and  to 
him  addressed  her  answer: 

213 


TRUE  TILDA 

"'Enery's  broke  it  off!" 

"Oh!"  said  the  boy.  He  reflected  a  moment,  and 
added  with  a  bright  smile,  "And  what  about  Sam?" 

"It's  all  'ere" — she  held  out  the  letter;  "an'  we  got 
to  take  it  to  'im.  'Enery  says  that  waitin'  's  a  weary 
business,  but  'e  leaves  it  to  'er;  on'y  'e's  just  found  out 
there's  insanity  on  'is  side  o'  the  family.  That's  a  bit 
'ard  on  Sam,  o'  course;  but  'Enery  doesn'  know  about 
Sam's  feelin's.    'E  was  just  tryin'  to  be  tactful." 

"You'll  pardon  my  curiosity,"  put  in  young  Mr. 
Jessup;  "but  I  don't  seem  to  get  the  hang  of  this.  So 
far  as  I  figure  it  up,  you  two  children  jump  out  of  no- 
where and  find  yourselves  here  for  the  first  time  in  your 
lives;  and  before  I  can  paint  one  of  you — and  I'm  no 
snail — the  other  walks  into  a  public-house,  freezes  on 
to  an  absolute  stranger,  busdes  her  through  one  matri- 
monial affair  and  has  pretty  well  fixed  her  with  another. 
As  a  student  of  locomotion  " — he  turned  and  stared  down 
upon  Tilda — "I'd  like  you  to  tell  me  how  you  did  it." 

"Well,"  she  answered,  "I  felt  a  bit  nervous  at  start- 
in'.  So  I  walked  straight  in  an'  ordered  twopenn'orth 
o'  beer — an'  then  it  all  came  out." 

"Was  that  so?"  He  perpended  this,  and  went  on, 
"I  remember  reading  somewhere  in  Ruskin  that  the 
more  a  man  can  do  his  job  the  more  he  can't  say  how. 
It's  rough  on  learners." 

But  Tilda  was  not  to  be  drawn  into  a  disputation 
on  Art. 

214 


"FOUR  ALLS"  AND  CELESTIAL  CHEMIST 

"Come  along,"  she  called  to  the  boy. 

"  You  mean  to  take  him  from  me  in  this  hurry  ?  .  .  . 
Well,  that  breaks  another  record.  I  never  up  to  now  lost 
a  model  before  I'd  weakened  on  him :  it's  not  their  way." 

"That  young  man,"  said  Tilda  as,  holding  Arthur 
Miles  by  the  hand,  she  drew  him  away  and  left  the  pair 
standing  where  the  level  sun  slanted  through  the  wil- 
lows— "that  young  man,"  she  repeated,  turning  for  a 
last  wave  of  the  hand  to  the  girl  in  the  sun  bonnet,  "is 
'e  a  bit  touched  in  'is  'ead,  now  ?  " 

The  dusk  gathered  as  they  retraced  their  way  along 
Avon  bank,  and  by  the  time  they  reached  the  fair 
meadow  the  shows  were  hanging  out  their  lights.  The 
children  gave  the  field  a  wide  berth,  and  fetching  a  cir- 
cuit, reached  a  gray  stone  bridge  over  which  the  road 
led  into  the  town. 

They  crossed  it.  They  were  now  in  Stratford,  in  a 
street  lit  with  gas  lamps  and  lined  with  bright  shop 
windows;  and  Tilda  had  scarcely  proceeded  a  dozen 
yards  before  she  turned,  aware  of  something  wrong 
with  the  boy.  In  truth,  he  had  never  before  made 
acquaintance  with  a  town  at  night.  Lamps  and  shop 
fronts  alike  bewildered  him.  He  had  halted,  irresolute. 
He  needed  her  hand  to  pilot  him. 

She  gave  it,  puzzled;  for  this  world  so  strange  to  him 
was  the  world  she  knew  best.     She  could  not  under- 

215 


TRUE  TILDA 

stand  what  ailed  him.  But  it  was  characteristic  of  Tilda 
that  she  helped  first  and  asked  questions  afterward,  if 
she  asked  them  at  all.  Usually  she  found  that,  given 
time,  they  answered  themselves.  It  was  well,  perhaps, 
that  she  asked  none  now.  For  how  could  the  boy  have 
explained  that  he  seriously  believed  these  shops  and 
lighted  windows  to  be  Eastcheap,  Illyria,  Verona,  and 
these  passers-by,  brushing  briskly  along  the  pavements, 
to  be  Shakespeare's  people — the  authentic  persons  of 
the  plays?  He  halted,  gazing,  striving  to  identify  this 
figure  and  that  as  it  hurried  between  the  lights.  Which 
was  Mercutio  ruffling  to  meet  a  Capulet?  Was  this 
the  watch  passing  ? — Dogberry's'  watch  ?  That  broad- 
shouldered  man — could  he  be  Antonio,  Sebastian's 
friend,  lurking  by  to  his  seaport  lodging  ?  .  .  . 

They  were  deep  in  the  town,  when  he  halted  with 
a  gasp  and  a  start  that  half  withdrew  his  hand  from  her 
clasp.  A  pale  green  light  shone  on  his  face.  It  shone 
out  on  the  roadway  from  a  gigantic  illuminated  bottle 
in  a  chemist's  shop;  and  in  the  window  stood  three 
similar  bottles,  each  with  a  gas  jet  behind  it — one  yel- 
low, one  amethystine  violet,  one  ruby  red. 

His  grip,  relaxed  for  a  second,  closed  on  her  fingers 
again.  He  was  drawing  her  toward  the  window. 
They  stared  through  it  together,  almost  pressing  their 
faces  to  the  pane. 

Beyond  it,  within  the  shop,  surrounded  by  countless 
spotlessly  polished  bottles,  his  features  reflected  in  a 

216 


"FOUR  ALLS"  AND  CELESTIAL  CHEMIST 

flashing  mirror,  stood  an  old  man,  bending  over  a  ma- 
hogany counter,  while  with  delicate  fingers  he  rear- 
ranged a  line  of  gallipots  in  a  glass-covered  case. 

"Is— is  he " 

The  boy  paused,  and  Tilda  heard  him  gulp  down 
something  in  his  throat. 

"Suppose,"  he  whispered,  "if— if  it  should  be 
God?" 

"Ga'r'n!"  said  Tilda,  pulling  herself  together. 

"You're  sure  it's  only  Prospero?"  he  asked,  still  in 
a  whisper. 

Before  she  could  answer  him — but  indeed  she  could 
have  found  no  answer,  never  having  heard  of  Prospero 
— the  boy  had  dragged  her  forward  and  thrust  open  one 
of  the  glass  swing  doors.  It  was  he  who  now  showed 
the  courage. 

"My  lord!" 

"Hey?"  The  old  chemist  looked  up  over  his  spec- 
tacles, held  for  an  instant  a  gallipot  suspended  between 
finger  and  thumb,  and  set  it  down  with  nice  judgment. 
He  was  extremely  bald,  and  he  pushed  his  spectacles 
high  up  on  his  scalp.  Then  he  smiled  benevolenUy. 
""What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  dears  ?" 

The  boy  stepped  forward  bravely,  while  Tilda — the 
game  for  once  taken  out  of  her  hands — could  only 
admire. 

"If  you  would   tell  us  where  the  Island  is — it  is 

called  Holmness " 

217 


TRUE  TILDA 

Tilda  caught  her  breath.  But  the  old  chemist  still 
bent  forward,  and  still  with  his  kindly  smile. 

"Holmness? — an  island?"  he  repeated  in  a  musing 
echo.    "  Let  me  see " 

"We  ain't  sure  it's  an  island,  sir,"  put  in  Tilda, 
plucking  up  her  courage  a  little. 

"It  will  be  in  the  Gazetteer,  of  course,"  said  the  old 
chemist  with  a  happy  thought;  "and  you'll  find  that 
in  the  Free  Library." 

"  Gazetteer"—"  Free  Library."  To  Tilda  these  were 
strange  words — names  of  wide  oceans,  perhaps,  or  of  far 
foreign  countries.  But  the  boy  caught  at  the  last  word : 
he  remembered  Prospero's 

"  Me,  poor  man,  my  library 
Was  dukedom  large  enough," 

and  this  made  him  more  confident  than  ever. 

"But  why  do  you  want  to  know?"  the  old  chemist 
went  on.    "  Is  it  home  lessons  ?" 

"  'E,"  said  Tilda,  indicating  Arthur  Miles,  "  'e  wants 
to  find  a  relation  'e's  got  there — a  kind  of  uncle — in 
'Olmness,  w'ich  is  in  the  Gazetteer,"  she  repeated,  as 
though  the  scent  lay  hidden  in  a  nest  of  boxes,  "w'ich 
is  in  the  Free  Library." 

"If  you  don't  mind  waiting  a  moment,  I'll  take  you 
there." 

The  children  gasped. 

He  turned  and  trotted  around  the  back  of  his  mir- 

218 


"FOUR  ALLS"  AND  CELESTIAL  CHEMIST 

rored  screen.  They  heard  him  call  and  announce  to 
some  one  in  the  back  parlour — but  the  boy  made  sure 
that  it  was  to  Miranda  in  her  inner  cave — that  he  was 
going  out  for  a  few  minutes;  and  by  and  by  he  reap- 
peared, wearing  a  dark  skull-cap,  with  an  Inverness 
cape  about  his  shoulders,  and  carrying  in  his  hand  a 
stout  staff.  He  joined  them  by  lifting — another  marvel 
— a  mahogany  flap  and  walking  straight  through  the 
counter!  and  so  led  the  way  out  of  the  shop  and  up  the 
street  to  the  right,  while  the  children  in  delicious  terror 
trotted  at  his  heels. 

They  came  to  an  open  doorway,  with  a  lamp  burning 
above  it.  Dark  wavering  shadows  played  within,  across 
the  threshold;  but  the  old  man  stepped  through  these 
boldly,  and  pushed  open  the  door  of  a  lighted  room. 
The  children  followed,  and  stood  for  a  moment  blinking. 

The  room  was  lined  with  books — shelves  upon 
shelves  of  books;  and  among  their  books  a  dozen  men 
sat  reading  in  total  silence.  Some  held  thin,  unbound 
pages  of  enormous  size — Arthur  Miles  was  unac- 
quainted with  newspapers — open  before  them;  all 
were  of  middle  age  or  over;  and  none  of  them  showed 
surprise  at  the  new-comers.  The  old  chemist  nodded 
to  one  or  two,  who  barely  returned  his  nod  and  forth- 
with resumed  their  studies. 

He  walked  straight  across  the  room — this  was  won- 
derful, too,  that  he  should  know,  among  so  many 
books,  exactly  where  to  search — adjusted  his  specta- 

219 


TRUE  TILDA 

cies,  stooped  with  palms  on  knees,  peered  for  ten  sec- 
onds or  so  along  the  backs  of  a  row  of  tall  volumes, 
drew  forth  one,  and  bearing  it  to  the  table,  laid  it  open 
under  the  lamplight. 

"Let  me  see — let  me  see,"  he  muttered,  turning  the 
pages  rapidly.  "H — H.O. — here  we  are!  Hockley-- 
Hoe — no."  He  turned  another  three  or  four  pages. 
"  Holbeach — Hollington — Hollingwood — Holme —  ah, 
here    we    have    it! — Holmfirth,    Holme    Fell,    Holme 

Moss,  HOLMNESS." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  scanning  the  page  while 
they  held  their  breath.  Then  he  read  aloud,  yet  not  so 
as  to  disturb  the  other  students: 

"'  Holmness.  An  Island  or  Islet  in  the  Bristol 
Channel '" 

"Ah!"  The  boy  let  his  breath  escape  almost  in  a 
sob. 

"'Uninhabited '" 

The  old  chemist  looked  up  over  the  rims  of  his  spec 
tacles;  but  whether  questioning  or  because  the  sound 
had  interrupted  him,  Tilda  could  not  determine. 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy  eagerly.  "They  thought  that 
about — about  the  other  Island,  sir.    Didn't  they?" 

The  old  man,  either  not  hearing  or  not  understand- 
ing, looked  down  at  the  page  again.  He  read  out  the 
latitude  and  longitude — words  and  figures  which  neither 
of  the  children  understood. 

"'Extreme  length,  three-quarters  of  a  mile;  width  at 

220 


"FOUR  ALLS"  AND  CELESTIAL  CHEMIST 

narrowest  point,  165  yards.  It  contains  356  acres,  all 
of  short  grass,  and  affords  pasturage  in  summer  for  a 
few  sheep  from  the  mainland.  There  is  no  harbour; 
but  the  south  side  affords  fair  anchorage  for  vessels 
sheltering  from  N.W.  winds.  The  distance  from  near- 
est point  of  coast  is  3f  miles.  Reputed  to  have  served 
anciently  as  rendezvous  for  British  pirates,  and  even  in 
the  last  century  as  a  smugglers'  entrepot.  Geological 
formation '" 

"Is  that  all ?"  asked  Tilda  as  the  old  man  ceased  his 
reading. 

"That  is  all." 

"  But  the  river  will  take  us  to  it,"  said  the  boy  con- 
fidently. 

"Hey?    What  river?" 

"Why,  this  river — the  Avon.  It  leads  down  to  it — 
of  course  it  must!" 

"Why,  yes,"  answered  the  old  chemist,  after  consid- 
ering awhile.  "In  a  sense,  of  course,  it  does.  I  hadn't 
guessed  at  your  age  you'd  be  so  good  at  geography. 
The  Avon  runs  down  to  Tewkesbury,  and  there  it  joins 
the  Severn ;  and  the  Severn  leads  down  past  Gloucester 
and  into  the  Bristol  Channel." 

"I  was  sure!" 

The  boy  said  it  in  no  very  loud  tone:  but  something 
shook  in  his  voice,  and  at  the  sound  of  it  all  the  readers 
looked  up  with  curiosity — which  changed,  however,  to 
protest  at  sight  of  the  boy's  rags. 

221 


TRUE  TILDA 

"S-sh-sh!"  said  two  or  three. 

The  old  chemist  gazed  around  apoli^etically,  closed 
the  volume,  replaced  it,  and  shepherded  the  children 
forth. 


222 


CHAPTER  XVII 

BY   WESTON   WEIR 

"Down  below  the  Weir  Brake 

Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting : 
You  and  I  our  way  must  take, 
You  and  I  our  way  will  wend 
Farther  on,  my  only  friend — 
Farther  on,  my  more  than  friend — 

My  sweet  sweeting." — Country  Song. 

In  a  private  apartment  of  the  Red  Cow  Public-house 
Sam  Bossom  sat  doggedly  pulUng  at  a  short  pipe  while 
Mr.  Mortimer  harangued  him. 

On  the  table  stood  a  cheap,  ill-smelling  oil  lamp 
between  two  mugs  of  beer.  Sam  had  drawn  his  chair 
close,  and  from  time  to  time  reached  out  a  hand  for 
his  mug,  stared  into  its  depths  as  though  for  advice, 
and  gloomily  replaced  it.  For  the  rest,  he  sat  leaning 
a  little  forward  on  his  crossed  arms,  with  set,  square 
chin,  and  eyes  fixed  on  a  knot  in  the  deal  table  top. 

Mr.  Mortimer  stood  erect,  in  a  declamatory  attitude, 
with  his  back  to  the  exiguous  fire.  In  the  pauses  of  his 
delivery,  failing  to  draw  response  from  Sam,  he  glanced 
down  at  his  wife  for  approval.  But  she,  too,  seated  on  a 
low  stool,  made  pretence  to  be  absorbed  in  her  knitting; 

223 


TRUE  TILDA 

and  her  upward  look,  when  her  lord  compelled  it,  ex- 
pressed deep  sympathy  rather  than  assent. 

"Consequently,"  perorated  Mr.  Mortimer,  "I  con- 
ceive my  personal  obligations  to  Mr.  Hucks  to  be  satis- 
fied; practically  satisfied,  even- in  law;  as  keen  men 
of  business,  and  allowing  for  contingencies,  satisfied 
abundantly.  To  liquidate  the  seven  pounds  fifteen  and 
six  owing  to  your  master  you  have,  on  your  own  admis- 
sion, six-seven-nine  in  hand.  We — my  Arabella  and  I 
— are  offered  a  fortnight  here  at  forty-four  shillings  per 
week  between  us.  Not  princely,  I  own.  But  suffer  me 
to  remind  you  that  it  realises  the  dream,  as  perchance 
it  affords  the  opportunity,  of  a  lifetime.  She  will  be 
Ophelia.  She,  the  embodiment  (I  dare  to  say  it)  of 
Shakespeare's  visionary  heroine,  will  realise  his  con- 
ception here,  on  this  classic  ground.  And  if,  at  short 
notice,  I  must  content  myse  f  with  doubling  the  parts 
of  Guildenstern  and  First  Gravedigger,  believe  me 
I  do  so  cheerfully,  pending  fuller — er — recognition." 

"My  Stanislas  demeans  himself  by  accepting  them," 
said  Mrs.  Mortimer,  still  with  her  eyes  on  her  knitting. 

"I  should  hope  so,  my  poppet.  Still,  there  is  Fat  in 
the  First  Gravedigger;  and  as  our  Gallic  neighbours 
put  it,  everything  comes  to  him  who  knows  how  to 
wait." 

"All  very  well,"  observed  Sam,  withdrawing  the  pipe 
from  his  mouth.  "  But  'ow  about  the  children  ?  I  put 
it  to  you,  ma'am." 

224 


BY  WESTON  WEIR 

"Ah,  poor  things!"  sighed  l^Irs.  Mortimer,  and  hesi- 
tated. She  was  about  to  say  inore,  when  her  husband 
interrupted : 

"  I  trust — I  sincerely  trust — that  my  faihngs,  such  as 
they  are,  have  ever  leaned  to  the  side  of  altruism. 
Throughout  life  I  have  been  apt  to  injure  myself  in 
befriending  others;  and  you  see" — Mr.  Mortimer 
flourished  a  hand — "where  it  has  landed  me.  We  have 
convoyed  these  children  to  Stratford,  to  use  the  lan- 
guage of  commerce,  as  per  contract.  To  ask  me — to 
ask  Mrs.  Mortimer — to  dance  attendance  upon  them 
indefinitely,  at  the  sacrifice  of  these  golden  pros- 
pects  " 

But  at  this  point  some  one  tapped  at  the  door. 

"Come  in!"  called  Sam,  swinging  around  in  his 
chair,  and  with  that,  jumping  to  his  feet,  let  out  a  cheer- 
ful "hooray!" 

"Same  to  you,"  said  Tilda,  nodding,  as  she  admitted 
Arthur  Miles  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  "Any- 
thing to  eat  in  this  public?" 

"I'll  order  in  supper  at  once,"  said  Sam. 

"No,  you  won't;  not  for  five  minutes  any'ow.  Well, 
'ere  we  are — and  'ow  'ave  you  three  been  gettin'  along 
since  I  saw  yer  last?" 

"Oh,  weWc  all  right;  but  all  the  better  for  seein'  you. 
That's  understood." 

"W'ich  I  looks  toward  yer,  and  I  likewise  bows," 
said  Tilda  graciously.     "But  what's  the  matter?"  she 

225 


TRUE  TILDA 

asked,  glancing  from  one  to  the  other.  "A  stranger 
might  say  as  you  wasn'  the  best  o'  friends," 

"Nothin'/'  answered  Sam  after  a  sUght  pause. 
"Bit  of  a  argymint — that's  all." 

"Wot  about?" 

"'Tisn'  worth  mentionin',"  Sam  glanced  at  the 
other  two.  "The  theayter  'ere's  offered  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Mortimer  an  engagement." 

"Well?" 

"We  was  discussin'  whether  they  ought  to  take  it." 

"W'ynot?" 

"Well,  you  see — Glasson  bein'  about " 

"After  them,  too,  is  'e?  Don't  mean  ter  say  they've 
been  an'  lost  their  fathers  an'  mothers  ?  No  ?  Then  I 
don't  see." 

"Them  'avin'  contracted  to  look  after  you " 

He  paused  here,  as  Tilda,  fixing  him  with  a  com- 
passionate stare,  began  to  shake  her  head  slowly. 

"You  don't  deserve  it — ^you  reelly  don't,"  she  said, 
more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger;  then  with  a  sharp  change 
of  tone,  "And  you  three  'ave  been  allowin',  I  s'pose, 
that  our  best  chance  to  escape  notice  is  travellin'  around 
with  a  fur  coat  an'  a  sixty-foot  Theayter  Royal  ?  ,  .  . 
W'y,  wot  was  it  put  Glasson  on  our  tracks  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm 
not  blamin'  yer!  Some  folks — most  folks,  I'm  comin'  to 
think — just  can't  'elp  theirselves.     But  it's  saddenin'." 

"O'  course,"  suggested  Sam,  "I  might  take  on  the 
job  single-'anded.      My  orders  don't  go   beyond  this 

226 


BY  WESTON  WEIR 

piace;  but  the  beer  '11  wait,  and  'Ucks  per'aps  won't 
mind  my  takin'  a  'oliday — not  if  I  explain." 

Tilda  regarded  him  for  a  while  before  answering. 
When  at  length  she  spoke,  it  was  with  a  fine,  if  weary, 
patience. 

"Got  pen  an  'ink,  any  of  yer?" 

Mrs.  Mortimer  arose,  stepped  to  a  bundle  of  shawls 
lying  in  a  Windsor  chair,  unwrapped  a  portable  writing- 
case  which  appeared  to  be  the  kernel  of  the  bundle,  and 
laid  it  on  the  table — all  this  with  extreme  docility. 

"I'll  trouble  you  to  do  the  writin',"  said  Tilda,  lay- 
ing a  sheet  of  paper  before  Sam  after  she  had  chosen  a 
pen  and  unsnapped  the  ink-case. 

"Why  not  Mortimer?"  he  protested  feebly. 

"  I  wouldn'  make  arguin'  a  'abit,  if  I  was  you." 

Sam  collapsed  and  took  the  pen  from  her,  after  eye- 
ing the  palms  of  his  hands  as  though  he  had  a  mind  to 
spit  on  them. 

"  Now  write,"  she  commanded,  and  began  to  dictate 
slowly. 

She  had  taken  command  of  the  room.  The  Morti- 
mers could  only  stand  by  and  listen,  as  helpless  as 
Arthur  Miles.  She  spoke  deliberately,  patiently,  in- 
dulging all  Sam's  slowness  of  penmanship: 

"'Dear  Mr.  'Ucks — This  comes  opin'  to  find  you 
well  as  it  leaves  us  all  at  present.  I  promised  to  write 
in  my  own  'and;  but  time  is  pressin',  as  I  am  goin'  to 
tell  you.    So  you  must  please  put  up  with  Mr.  Bossom, 

227 


TRUE  TILDA 

and  excuse  mistakes.  I  will  sign  this  to  let  you  know 
there  is  no  fake.  We  are  at  Stratford-on-Avon :  w'ich 
for  slow  goin'  must  be  a  record :  but  all  well  and  'early. 
Mr.  M.  'as  'ad  luck  with  'is  actin'— '    'Ow  much?" 

"Six-seven-nine,"  answered  Sam  as  he  caught  up 
with  her. 

"Clear?" 

Sam  nodded.  "Barrin',  o'  course,  the  bill  for  to- 
night's board  an'  lodgin'," 

" '  — Up  to  date  'e  'as  paid  S.  Bossom  over  six  pound, 
and  'as  picked  up  with  an  engagement  'ere.  Dear  sir, 
you  will  see  there's  no  risk,  and  S.  Bossom  will  stay  'ere 
a  week  an'  collect  the  balance.'" 

"The  Lord  forbid!"  Sam  protested,  laying  down  his 
pen. 

"I'd  like  to  know  oo's  writin'  this  letter — you  or 
me?"  She  pointed  to  the  paper.  "Go  on,  please. 
'Dear  sir,  a  party  as  we  will  call  W.  B  'as  joined  the 
company.    W'ich  is  strange  to  say '" 

"Who's  hef' 

Sam  looked  up  again,  but  Tilda's  finger  still  pointed 
firmly. 

"'W'ich  'e  too  continues  'earty;  but  You-know-Oo 
is  close  after  'im;  and  so,  dear  sir,  'avin'  'card  of  an 
Island  called  'Olmness,  we  are  off  there  to-morrow,  and 
will  let  you  know  further.  W'ich  I  remain  yours  re- 
spectfully— '    Now  'and  over  the  pen  an'  let  me  sign.'* 

"'Olmness?    Where's 'Olmness?" 

22S 


BY  WESTON  WEIR 

She  took  the  pen  from  him  and  slowly  printed 
TILDA,  in  roman  capitals;  examined  the  signature, 
made  sure  it  was  satisfactory,  and  at  length  answered : 

"It's  a  Island,  somewhere  in  the  Bristol  Channel, 
w'ich  is  in  the  Free  Library.  We've  just  come  from 
there." 

"An'  you  reckon  I  got  nothin'  better  to  do  than  go 
gallivantin'  with  you,  lookin'  for  islands  in  the  Bristol 
Channel?" 

"  — W'en  I  said,  on'y  a  minute  back,"  she  answered 
with  composure,  "  that  we  were  leavin'  you  in  Stratford 
for  a  week." 

"Ho!"  he  commented  scornfully.  "Leavin'  me,  are 
you?  You  leavin'  mef  .  .  .  Well,  if  that  ain't  good, 
I  declare!" 

She  looked  at  him  as  one  disdaining  argument. 

"  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  ter-morrow.  Let's  'ave  in 
supper  now;  for  we're  'ungry,  Arthur  Miles  an'  me,  an' 
the  Fat  Lady  '11  be  expectin'  us.  Between  two  an'  three 
miles  down  the  river  there's  a  lock,  near  a  place  they  call 
Weston — you  know  it,  I  reckon?  Well,  meet  us  there 
ter-morrow — say  eight  o'clock — an'  we'll  'ave  a  talk." 

"The  child,"  said  Mr.  Mortimer,  "has  evidently 
something  up  her  sleeve,  and  my  advice  is  that  we  hu- 
mour her." 

Tilda  eyed  him. 

"Yes,  that's  right,"  she  assented  with  unmoved 
countenance.    "  'Ave  in  supper  and  'umour  me." 

229 


TRUE  TILDA 

The  supper  consisted  of  two  dishes — the  one  of  tripe- 
and-onions,  the  other  of  fried  ham.  There  were  also 
potatoes  and  beer,  and  gin,  Mr.  Mortimer  being  a  suf- 
ferer from  some  complaint  which  made  this  cordial,  as 
Mrs.  Mortimer  assured  them,  "imperative."  But  to- 
night, "  to  celebrate  the  reunion,"  Mr.  Mortimer  chose 
to  defy  the  advice  of  the  many  doctors — "specialists" 
Mrs.  Mortimer  called  them — who  had  successively  called 
his  a  unique  case;  and  after  a  tough  battle — his  wife  de- 
murring on  hygienic,  Sam  on  financial,  grounds — ordered 
in  a  bottle  of  port,  at  the  same  time  startling  the  wait- 
ress with  the  demand  that  it  must  not  be  such  as  that 

"She  set  before  chance-comers, 

But  such  whose  father-grape  grew  fat 
On  Lusitanian  summers." 

That  the  beverage  fulfilled  this  condition  may  be 
doubted.  But  it  was  certainly  sweet  and  potent,  and 
for  the  children  at  any  rate  a  couple  of  glasses  of  it  in- 
duced a  haze  upon  the  feast — a  sort  of  golden  fog 
through  which  Mr.  Mortimer  loomed  in  a  halo  of  diffu- 
sive hospitality.  He  used  his  handkerchief  for  a  table- 
napkin,  and  made  great  play  with  it  as  they  do  in  ban- 
quets on  the  stage. 

He  pronounced  the  tripe-and-onions  "fit  for  Lucul- 
lus,"  whatever  that  might  mean.  He  commended  the 
flouriness  of  the  potatoes,  in  the  cooking  of  which  he 
claimed  to  be  something  of  an  amateur — "being  Irish, 
my  dear  Smiles,  on  my  mother's  side."    He  sipped  the 

230 


BY  WESTON  WEIR 

port  and  passed  it  for  "sound,  sir,  a  wine  of  unmistak- 
able body,"  though  for  bouquet  not  comparable  with 
the  contents  of  a  famous  bin  once  the  pride  of  his  pa- 
ternal cellars  at  Scaresby  Hall,  Northamptonshire.  He 
became  reminiscential,  and  spoke  with  a  break  in  his 
voice  of  a  certain 

"Banquet  hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  were  fled. 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  [Mr.  Mortimer]  departed." 

Here  he  wiped  his  eyes  with  the  handkerchief  that  had 
hitherto  done  duty  for  napkin,  and  passed,  himself, 
with  equal  adaptability  to  a  new  role.  He  would  give 
them  the  toast  of  "Their  Youthful  Guests  ": 

"They  are,  I  understand,  about  to  leave  us.  It  is 
not  ours  to  gaze  too  closely  into  the  crystal  of  fate;  nor, 
as  I  gather,  do  they  find  it  convenient  to  specify  the 
precise  conditions  of  their  departure.  But  of  this" — 
with  a  fine  roll  of  the  voice,  and  a  glance  at  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer— "of  this  we  may  rest  assured:  that  the  qualities 
which,  within  the  span  of  our  acquaintance,  they  have 
developed,  will  carry  them  far;  yet  not  so  far  that  they 
will  forget  their  fellow-travellers  whose  privilege  it  was 
to  watch  over  them  while  they  fledged  their  wings;  and 
perhaps  not  so  far  but  they  may  hear,  and  rejoice  in, 
some  echo  of  that  fame  which  (if  I  read  the  omens 
aright)" — here  again  he  glanced  at  his  wife— "the  pub- 
lic will  be  unable  much  longer  to  withhold." 

231 


TRUE  TILDA 

Altogether,  and  in  spite  of  his  high-flown  language, 
Mr.  Mortimer  gave  the  children  an  impression  that  he 
and  his  wife  were  honestly  sorry  to  part  with  them. 
And  when  the  supper — protracted  by  his  various  arts 
to  the  semblance  of  a  banquet  of  many  courses — came 
at  length  to  an  end,  Mrs.  Mortimer  dropped  a  quite 
untheatrical  tear  as  she  embraced  them  and  bade  them 
good-bye. 

Sam  Bossom  walked  with  them  to  the  bridge  and 
there  took  his  leave,  promising  to  meet  them  faithfully 
on  the  morrow  by  Weston  Lock. 

"Though,"  said  he, "  there  be  scenes  hereabouts  that  I 
finds  painful,  and  I'm  doin'  a  great  deal  to  oblige  you." 

"It's  a  strange  thing  to  me,"  said  Tilda  reflectively, 
gazing  after  him  until  his  tall  figure  was  lost  in  the 
darkness  between  the  gas  lamps,  "  'ow  all  these  grown- 
ups get  it  fixed  in  their  'eads  that  they're  doin'  the  per- 
tectin'.    I  reckon  their  size  confuses  'em." 

They  found  the  Fat  Lady  sitting  up  and  awaiting 
them  in  some  anxiety. 

"It's  on  account  of  the  dog,"  she  explained  while 
'Dolph  devoured  them  with  caresses.  "I  managed  to 
keep  him  pretty  quiet  all  day,  but  when  the  time  came 
for  me  to  perform,  and  I  had  to  leave  him  locked  in  the 
van  here,  he  started  turnin'  it  into  a  menagerie.  Gavel 
has  sent  around  twice  to  say  that  if  it's  a  case  of  '  Love 
me,  love  my  dog,'  him  and  me'll  have  to  break  con- 
tracts." 

232 


BY  WESTON  WEIR 

"Leadin'  this  sort  o'  life  don't  suit  'im/'  said  Tilda. 

"No,"  Mrs.  Lobb  agreed;  "he's  drunk  as  a  lord 
again,  and  his  temper  something  awful." 

Tilda  stared. 

"I  meant  the  dog,"  she  explained. 

So  the  children,  looking  forth  and  judging  the  coast 
clear,  took  Godolphus  for  a  scamper  across  the  dark 
meadow.  They  returned  to  find  their  hostess  disrobed 
and  in  bed,  and  again  she  had  the  tea  equipage  arrayed 
and  the  kettle  singing  over  the  spirit-lamp. 

"It's  healthful,  no  doubt — all  this  exercise,"  she  re- 
marked with  a  somewhat  wistful  look  at  their  glowing 
faces;  "but  it's  not  for  me,"  she  added.  "There's  an- 
other thing  you've  taught  me.  I've  often  wondered, 
sittin'  alone  here — supposin'  as  there  had  really  been 
a  Mr.  Lobb — how  I  could  have  done  with  the  children. 
Now,  my  dears,  it's  pleasant  havin'  your  company;  but 
there's  an  anxiety  about  it  that  I  find  wearin'.  A  week 
of  it,  and  I'd  be  losin'  flesh.  And  the  moral  is,  if  you're 
an  artist  you  must  make  sacrifices." 

The  Fat  Lady  sighed.  She  sighed  again  and  more 
heavily  as,  having  extinguished  the  lamp,  she  composed 
herself  to  sleep. 

Early  next  morning  they  bade  her  farewell,  and  de- 
parted with  her  blessing.  Now  Tilda  the  match- 
maker had  arranged  in  her  mind  a  very  pretty  scene  of 
surprise  and   reconciliation.      But,    as  she  aftenvard 

233 


TRUE  TILDA 

observed,  "there's  times  when  you  worrit  along  for  days 
together,  an'  no  seemin'  good  of  it;  an'  then  one  mornin' 
you  wakes  up  to  find  everything  goin'  Hke  clockwork,  an' 
yerself  standin'  by,  an'  watchin',  an'  feeUn'  small." 

So  it  happened  this  morning  as  they  drew  near  to 
Weston.  There  in  the  morning  light  they  saw  the 
broken  lock  with  a  weir  beside  it,  and  over  the  weir  a 
tumble  of  flashing  water;  an  islet  or  two,  red  with  stalks 
of  loosestrife;  a  swan  bathing  in  the  channel  between. 
And  there,  early  as  they  came,  Sam  Bossom  stood 
already  on  the  lock  bank;  but  not  awaiting  them,  and 
not  alone.  For  at  a  distance  of  six  paces,  perhaps,  stood 
the  girl  of  the  blue  sun  bonnet,  confronting  him. 

Tilda  gasped. 

"And  I  got  'er  promise  to  wait  till  I  called  'er.  It's 
— it's  unwomanly!" 

Sam  turned  and  caught  sight  of  them.  He  made  as 
though  to  leave  the  girl  standing,  and  came  a  pace 
toward  them,  but  halted.  There  was  a  great  awe  in 
his  face. 

'"Enery's  broke  it  off!"  he  announced  slowly,  and 
his  voice  trembled. 

"I  could  a-told  yer  that."  Tilda's  manner  was 
short,  as  she  produced  the  letter  and  handed  it  to  him. 
"There— go  to  'im,"  she  said  in  a  gentler  voice  as  she 
slipped  past  the  girl.  "'E's  good,  as  men  go;  and  'e's 
suffered." 

She  walked  resolutely  away  down  the  path. 

234 


BY  WESTON  WEIR 

"But  where  are  you  going?"  asked  Arthur  Miles, 
running  and  catching  up  with  her. 

"Farther  on,  as  usual,"  she  snapped.  "Can't  yer 
see  they  don't  want  us?" 

"But  why?" 

"Because  they're  love-makin'." 

He  made  no  answer,  and  she  glanced  at  his  face. 
Its  innocent  wonderment  nettled  her  the  more,  yet  she 
had  no  notion  why.  She  walked  on  faster  than  ever. 
In  the  clearing  by  the  "Four  Alls"  they  came  on  the 
young  American.  He  had  packed  up  his  camp  furni- 
ture, and  was  busy  stowing  it  in  the  canoe. 

"Hullo!"  he  greeted  them.  "Can't  stay  for  another 
sitting,  if  that's  what  you're  after." 

With  Tilda  in  her  present  mood  the  boy  felt  a  sudden 
helplessness.  The  world  in  this  half-hour — for  the 
first  time  since  his  escape — had  grown  unfriendly.  His 
friends  were  leaving  him,  averting  their  faces,  turning 
away  to  their  own  affairs.    He  stretched  out  his  hands. 

"Won't  you  take  us  with  you?" 

Mr.  Jessup  stared. 

"Why,  certainly,"  he  answered  after  a  moment. 
"  Hand  me  the  valise,  there,  and  nip  on  board.  There's 
plenty  of  room." 

He  had  turned  to  Tilda  and  was  addressing  her. 
She  obeyed,  and  handed  the  valise  automatically. 
Certainly,  and  without  her  help,  the  world  was  going 
like  clockwork  this  morning. 

235 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

DOWN   AVON 

"  0,  my  heart !  as  white  sails  shiver, 

And  crowds  are  passing,  and  banks  stretch  wide, 
How  hard  to  follow,  with  lips  that  quiver. 
That  moving  speck  on  the  far-off  side." 

— Jean  Ingelow. 

They  were  afloat:  Arthur  Miles  in  the  bows,  Tilda 
amidships,  and  both  facing  Mr.  Jessup,  who  had  taken 
the  stern  seat,  and  there  steered  the  ^canoe  easily  with 
a  single  paddle,  as  the  Indians  do. 

They  shot  under  the  scour  of  a  steep  bank  covered 
with  thorns  and  crab-apple  trees  and  hummocks  of 
sombre  grass.  Beyond  this  they  drifted  down  to  Wel- 
ford  Weir  and  Mill,  past  a  slope  where  the  yellowing 
chestnuts  all  but  hid  Welford  village.  They  had  to  run 
the  canoe  ashore  here,  unlade  her  of  the  valises  and 
camp  furniture,  and  carry  her  across  the  weir.  The 
children  enjoyed  this  amazingly. 

"Boy,  would  you  like  to  take  a  paddle?"  asked  Mr. 
Jessup. 

Now  this  was  what  Arthur  Miles  had  been  desiring 
for  twenty  minutes  past,  and  with  all  his  soul.  So  now, 
the  canoe  having  been  laundhed  again  and  Tilda  trans- 

236 


DOWN  AVON 

ferred  to  the  bows,  he  found  himself  perched  amidships, 
with  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  reaches  ahead,  and  in  his  hand 
a  paddle,  which  he  worked  cautiously  at  first,  following 
Mr.  Jessup's  instructions.  But  confidence  soon  grew 
in  him,  and  he  began  to  put  more  vigour  into  his  strokes. 
"Right,  sonny,"  and  "Better  and  better"  commented 
his  instructor,  for  the  child  took  to  it  as  a  duck  to 
water.  In  twenty  minutes  or  so  he  had  learnt  to  turn 
his  paddle  slantwise  after  the  stroke,  and  to  drag  it  so 
as  to  assiiSt  the  steering;  which  was  not  always  easy,  for 
here  and  there  a  snag  blocked  the  main  channel,  or  a 
pebbly  shallow  where  the  eye  had  to  search  for  the 
smooth  V  that  signals  the  best  water.  Tilda  watched 
him,  marvelling  at  his  strange  aptitude,  and  once, 
catching  her  eye,  he  nodded;  but  still,  as  he  mastered 
the  knack,  and  the  stroke  of  the  paddle  became  more 
and  more  mechanical,  his  attention  disengaged  itself 
from  the  moment — from  the  voice  of  Mr.  Jessup  astern, 
the  girl's  intent  gaze,  the  swirl  about  the  blade,  the  scent 
and  pageant  of  the  green  banks  on  either  hand — and 
pressed  forward  to  follow  each  far  curve  of  the  stream, 
each  bend  as  it  slowly  unfolded.  Bend  upon  bend — 
they  might  fold  it  a  hundred  deep;  but  somewhere 
ahead  and  beyond  their  folding  lay  the  Island. 

In  this  wise  they  passed  under  a  grassy  hillside  set 
with  trimmed  elms,  and  came  to  Grange  Mill  and  an- 
other portage;  and  below  Grange  to  Bidford,  where 
there  is  a  bridge  of  many  arches  carrying  the  old  Ro- 

237 


TRUE  TILDA 

man  road  called  Icknield  Street;  and  from  the  bridge 
and  gray  little  town  they  struck  into  a  long  reach  that 
ran  straight  into  the  dazzle  of  the  sun — through  flat 
meadows  at  first,  and  then,  with  a  turn,  under  the  steep 
of  Marcleeve  Hill,  that  here  borders  Avon  to  the  south 
for  miles.  Here  begin  the  spurs  of  the  Cotswolds — 
scars  of  green  and  red  marl  dotted  with  old  thorn  trees 
or  draped  with  ash  and  maple,  or  smothered  with  trails 
of  the  Traveller's  Joy. 

Mr.  Jessup,  whose  instructions  had  become  less  and 
less  frequent  and  indeed  were  by  this  time  patently 
superfluous,  so  quick  the  boy  showed  himself  to  antici- 
pate the  slightest  warning,  hereabouts  engaged  Tilda 
in  converse. 

"He's  a  wonder,  this  child!  I  don't  know  where  he 
comes  from,  or  you,  or  how  far  you're  willing  I  should 
take  you.  In  fact,  there's  an  unholy  flavour  of  kid- 
napping about  this  whole  adventure.  But  I  guess, 
if  I  wanted  to  return  you,  there  are  no  railways 
hereabouts.  We  must  strike  the  first  depot  we  come 
to,  and  I'll  frank  you  back  with  apologies  to  your 
parents." 

"We  got  none,"  Tilda  assured  him. 

"For  a  steady-going  country  like  England  that's 
unusual,  eh?" 

"There  is  a  bit  o'  that  about  us,"  she  conceded  after 
a  pause. 

"But  you  must  belong  to  somebody?"  he  urged. 

238 


DOWN  AVON 

"He  do.  .  .  .  And  that's  what  I  got  to  find  out. 
But  it  'II  be  all  right  when  we  get  to  'Olmness." 

"Holmness?"  queried  Mr.  Jessup.  "Where's 
Holmness?" 

"It's  an  Island,  in  the  Bristol  Channel,  w'ich  is  in 
the  Free  Library,    We're  goin'  that  way,  ain't  we?" 

"That's  our  direction,  certainly;  though  we're  a 
goodish  way  off." 

"No  'urry,"  said  Tilda  graciously.  "We'll  get  there 
in  time." 

Mr.  Jessup  smiled. 

"Thank  you.  I  am  delighted  to  help,  of  course. 
You'll  find  friends  there — at  Holmness?" 

She  nodded. 

"Though,  as  far  as  that  goes,"  she  allowed  yet  more 
graciously,  "I'm  not  complainin'.  We've  made  friends 
all  the  way  yet — an'  you're  the  latest." 

"I  am  honoured,  though  in  a  sense  I  hardly  deserve 
it.  You  did — if  I  may  say  it — rather  take  charge  of  me, 
you  know.  Not  that  I  mind.  This  is  my  picnic,  and  I 
don't  undertake  to  carry  you  farther  than  Tewkesbury. 
But  it  does  occur  to  me  that  you  owe  me  something  on 
the  trip." 

Tilda  stiffened. 

"You  can  put  us  ashore  where  you  like,"  said  she; 
"  but  one  d.  is  all  I  'ave  in  my  pocket,  as  maybe  'twould 
a-been  fairer  t'  a-told  yer." 

The  young  man  laughed  outright  and  cheerfully  as 

239 


TRUE  TILDA 

he  headed  the  canoe  for  shore.  They  were  close  upon 
another  weir  and  an  ancient  mill,  whence,  as  they 
landed  for  another  portage,  clouds  of  fragrant  flour 
dust  issued  from  the  doorway,  greeting  their  nostrils. 

"It's  this  way,"  he  explained.  "I'm  here  to  sketch 
Shakespeare's  country,  and  the  trouble  with  me  is, 
I've  a  theory." 

"It's — it's  not  a  bad  one,  I 'ope?" 

She  hazarded  this  sympathetically,  never  having 
heard  of  a  theory.  It  sounded  to  her  like  the  name  of 
an  internal  growth,  possibly  malignant. 

"Not  half  bad,"  he  assured  her.  He  was  cheerful 
about  it,  at  any  rate.  "  I'm  what  they  call  an  Impres- 
sionist. A  man — I  put  it  to  you — has  got  to  hustle 
after  culture  in  these  days  and  take  it,  so  to  speak,  in 
tabloids.  Now  this  morning,  before  you  came  along, 
I'd  struck  a  magnificent  notion.  As  I  dare  say  you've 
been  told,  the  way  to  get  at  the  essence  of  a  landscape 
is  to  half  close  your  eyes;  you  get  the  dominant  notes 
that  way,  and  shed  the  details.  Well,  I  allowed  I'd  go 
one  better,  and  see  the  whole  show  in  motion.  Have 
you  ever  seen  a  biograph — or  a  cinematograph,  as  some 
call  it?" 

"'Course  I  'ave,"  said  Tilda.  "There  was  one  in 
Maggs's  Circus." 

"Then  you'll  have  no  trouble  in  getting  the  hang  of 
my  idea.  My  complaint  with  Art  is  that  it  don't  keep 
itself  abreast  of  modern  inventions.     The  cinemato- 

240 


DOWN  AVON 

graph,  miss,  has  come  to  stay,  and  the  Art  of  the  future, 
unless  Art  means  to  get  left,  '11  have  to  adopt  its  princi- 
ples. .  .  .  Well,  I  couldn't  put  Shakespeare's  country 
into  motion;  but  on  the  river  I  could  put  myself  in  mo- 
tion, which  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  With  the  cine- 
matograph I  grant  you,  it's  mostly  the  scene  that's  in  mo- 
tion while  you  sit  still;  but  there's  also  a  dodge  by  which 
you're  in  the  railway  car  and  flying  past  the  scenery." 

Tilda  nodded. 

"Maggs  'ad  'old  of  that  trick,  too.  'E  called  it  A 
Trip  on  the  Over'ead  Railway,  New  York." 

"Right;  and  now  you  see.  I  allowed  that  by  steering 
down  Avon  and  keeping  my  eyes  half  closed,  by  the  time 
I  reached  Tewkesbury  I'd  have  Shakespeare's  environ- 
ment all  boiled  down  and  concentrated;  and  at  Tewkes- 
bury I'd  stop  and  slap  in  the  general  impression  while  it 
was  fresh.  But  just  here  I  ran  my  head  full  butt  against 
another  principle  of  mine,  which  is  plein  air." 

"Wot's  that?" 

"Why,  that  a  landscape  should  be  painted  where  it 
stands,  and  not  in  the  studio." 

"You  couldn'  very  well  paint  with  one  'and  an' 
paddle  with  the  other,"  she  began;  but  added  in  a 
moment,  "Why,  there's  Arthur  Miles,  o'  course!  doin', 
as  ush'al,  while  the  others  are  talkin'.  That  child 
brings  luck  w'erever  'e  goes." 

"You  think  that  I  could  change  places  and  trust  him 
to  steer." 

241 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Think?  Why,  for  the  las'  ten  minutes  'e  'as  been 
steerin'!" 

So  below  Cleeve  they  changed  places,  Mr.  Jessup 
settling  himself  amidships  with  his  apparatus  for 
sketching,  while  Arthur  Miles  was  promoted — if  the 
word  may  be  allowed — to  the  seat  astern.  For  a  while 
he  took  his  new  responsibility  gravely,  with  pursed  lips 
and  eyes  intent  on  every  stroke  of  the  paddle,  watching, 
experimenting,  as  a  turn  of  the  wrist  more  or  less 
righted  or  deflected  the  steering.  But  in  a  few  minutes 
he  had  gained  confidence,  and  again  his  gaze  removed 
itself  from  the  swirl  around  the  blade  and  began  to 
dwell  on  the  reaches  ahead. 

They  were  entering  the  rich  vale  of  Evesham.  On 
their  left  the  slopes  of  Marcleeve  Hill  declined  gradu- 
ally to  the  open  plain;  on  their  right,  behind  a  long 
fringe  of  willows,  stretched  meadow  after  meadow,  all 
green  and  flat  as  billiard-tables.  They  were  passing 
down  through  the  scene  of  a  famous  battle.  But  the 
children  had  never  heard  of  Evesham  fight;  and  Mr. 
Jessup  had  mislaid  his  guide-book.  He  sat  with  half- 
closed  eyes,  now  and  again  dipping  his  brush  over  the 
gunwale,  and  anon,  for  a  half  minute  or  so,  flinging 
broad  splashes  of  water-colour  upon  his  sketching  pad. 

They  were  nearing  the  ferry  at  Harvington,  and 
already  began  to  lift  the  bold  outline  of  Bredon  Hill 
that  shuts  out  the  Severn  Valley,  when  without  warn- 
ing the  boy  broke  into  song.  .  .  . 

242 


DOWN  AVON 

It  was  the  strangest  performance.  It  had  no  tune  in 
it,  no  intelligible  words;  it  was  just  a  chant  rising  and 
falling,  as  the  surf  might  rise  and  fall  around  the  base 
of  that  Island  for  which  his  eyes  sought  the  green  vale 
right  away  to  the  horizon. 

Mr.  Jessup  looked  up  from  his  work.  His  eyes  en- 
countered Tilda's,  and  Tilda's  were  smiling.  But  at 
the  same  time  they  enjoined  silence. 

The  boy  sang  on.  His  voice  had  been  low  and  tenta- 
tive at  first;  but  now,  gathering  courage,  he  lifted  it  upon 
a  note  of  high  challenge.  He  could  not  have  told  why, 
but  he  sang  because  he  was  steering  toward  his  fate.  It 
might  lie  far,  very  far,  ahead ;  but  somewhere  ahead  it 
lay,  beyond  the  gradually  unfolding  hills;  somewhere  in 
the  west  these  would  open  upon  the  sea,  and  in  the  sea 
would  be  lying  his  Island.    His  song  already  saluted  it. 

"I  am  coming!"  it  challenged.  "O  my  fate,  be 
prepared  for  me!" 

So  they  floated  down  to  Harvington  Mill  and  Weir; 
and  as  Mr.  Jessup  half  turned  his  head,  warning  him 
to  steer  for  shore,  the  boy's  voice  faltered  and  dropped 
suddenly  to  silence,  as  a  lark  drops  down  from  the  sky. 
Tilda  saw  him  start  and  come  to  himself  with  a  hot 
blush,  that  deepened  when  she  laughed  and  ordered 
'Dolph  to  bark  for  an  encore. 

They  ported  the  canoe  and  luggage  down  a  steep 
and  slippery  overfall,  launched  her  again,  and  shot 
down  past  Harvington  Weir,  where  a  crowd  of  small 

243 


TRUE  TILDA 

sandpipers  kept  them  company  for  a  mile,  flitting 
ahead  and  ahghting  but  to  take  wing  again.  Tilda  had 
fallen  silent.  By  and  by,  as  they  passed  the  Fish  and 
Anchor  Inn,  she  looked  up  at  Mr.  Jessup  and  asked : 
"But  if  you  want  to  paint  fast,  why  not  travel  by 
train?" 

"I  thought  of  it,"  Mr.  Jessup  answered  gravely. 
"  But  the  railroad  hereabouts  wasn't  engineered  to  catch 
the  sentiment,  and  it's  the  sentiment  I'm  after— the  old- 
world  charm  of  field  and  high-road  and  leafy  hedge- 
row, if  you  understand  me."  Here  he  paused  of  a  sud- 
den, and  laid  his  sketch  block  slowly  down  on  his 
knee.  "  Je-hosaphat!"  he  exclaimed,  his  eyes  bright- 
ening.   "  Why  ever  didn't  I  think  of  it  ?  " 

"Think  of  wot?" 

He  nodded  his  head. 

"  You'll  see,  missie,  when  we  get  to  Evesham !  You've 
put  a  notion  into  me— and  we're  going  to  ratUe  up  Turner 
and  make  him  hum.  The  guide-books  say  he  spent  con- 
siderable of  his  time  at  Tewkesbury.  I  disremember  if 
he's  buried  there;    but  we'll  wake  his  ghost,  anyway." 

So  by  Offenham  and  Dead  Man  Eyot  they  came  to 
the  high  embankment  of  a  railway  and  thence  to  a 
bridge,  and  a  beautiful  bell-tower  leapt  into  view, 
soaring  above  the  mills  and  roofs  of  Evesham. 

At  Evesham,  a  litde  above  the  Workman  Gardens, 
they  left  the  canoe  in  charge  of  a  waterman,  and  fared 

244 


DOWN  AVON 

up  to  the  town,  where  Mr.  Jessup  led  them  into  a 
palatial  hotel — or  so  it  seemed  to  the  children — and 
ordered  a  regal  luncheon.  It  was  served  by  a  waiter  in  a 
dress  suit;  an  ancient  and  benign-looking  person,  whose 
appearance  and  demeanour  so  weighed  upon  Tilda  that 
true  to  her  protective  instinct,  she  called  up  all  her  cour- 
age to  nod  across  the  table  at  Arthur  Miles  and  reassure 
him.  To  her  stark  astonishment,  the  boy  was  eating 
without  embarrassment,  as  though  to  be  waited  on  with 
this  pomp  had  been  a  mere  matter  of  course. 

When  the  cheese  was  brought,  Mr.  Jessup  left  them 
on  a  trivial  pretext,  and  absented  himself  so  long  that 
at  length  she  began  to  wonder  what  would  happen  if 
he  had  "done  a  bilk,"  and  left  them  to  discharge  the 
score.  The  waiter  hovered  around,  flicking  at  the  side- 
tables  with  his  napkin  and  brushing  them  clean  of 
imaginary  crumbs. 

Tilda,  eking  out  her  last  morsel  of  biscuit,  opined 
that  their  friend  would  surely  be  back  presently.  She 
addressed  the  remark  to  Arthur  Miles;  but  the  waiter 
at  once  stepped  forward. 

"It  is  to  be  'oped!"  said  he,  absent-mindedly  dusting 
the  back  of  a  chair. 

Just  at  this  moment  a  strange  throbbing  noise  drew 
him  to  the  window,  to  gaze  out  into  the  street.  It 
alarmed  the  children,  too,  and  they  were  about  to  fol- 
low and  seek  the  cause  of  it,  when  Mr.  Jessup  appeared 
in  the  doorway. 

245 


TRUE  TILDA 

"I've  managed  it!"  he  announced,  and  calling  to 
the  waiter,  demanded  the  bill. 

The  waiter  turned,  whisked  a  silver-plated  salver 
apparently  out  of  nowhere,  and  presented  a  paper 
upon  it. 

"  Nine-and-six — and  one  is  ten-and-six.  I  thank 
you,  sir,"  said  the  waiter,  bowing  low. 

He  was  good  enough  to  follow  them  to  the  doorway, 
where  Mr.  Jessup  waved  a  hand  to  indicate  a  motor 
standing  ready  beside  the  pavement,  and  told  the  chil- 
dren to  tumble  in. 

"I've  taken  your  tip,  you  see." 

"My  tip?"  gasped  Tilda. 

"Well,  you  gave  me  the  hint  for  it,  like  Sir  Isaac 
Newton's  apple.  I've  hired  the  car  for  the  afternoon; 
and  now,  if  you'll  tuck  yourselves  in  with  these  rugs, 
you  two  '11  have  the  time  of  your  lives." 

He  shut  the  door  upon  them,  and  mounted  to  a  seat 
in  front.  The  car  was  already  humming  and  throb- 
bing, and  the  hired  chauffeur,  climbing  to  a  seat  beside 
him,  started  her  at  once.    They  were  off. 

They  took  the  road  that  leads  northward  out  of 
Evesham,  and  then,  turning  westward,  rounds  the 
many  loops  and  twists  of  Avon  in  a  long  curve.  In  a 
minute  or  so  they  were  clear  of  the  town,  and  the  car 
suddenly  gathered  speed.  Tilda  caught  her  breath  and 
held  tight;  but  the  pace  did  not  seem  to  perturb  the 
boy,  who  sat  with  his  lips  parted  and  his  gaze  fixed 

240 


DOWN  AVON 

ahead.  As  for  Mr.  Jessup,  behind  the  shelter  of  the 
wind-glass  he  was  calmly  preparing  to  sketch. 

They  had  left  the  pastures  behind,  and  were  racing 
now  through  a  land  of  orchards  and  market  gardens, 
ruled  out  and  planted  with  plum  trees  and  cabbages 
in  stiff  lines  that,  as  the  car  whirled  past  them,  appeared 
to  be  revolving  slowly,  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel.  Be- 
low, on  their  left,  the  river  wandered — now  close  be- 
neath them,  now  heading  south  and  away,  but  always 
to  be  traced  by  its  ribbon  of  green  willows.  Thus  they 
spun  past  Wyre,  and  through  Pershore — Pershore,  set 
by  the  water  side,  with  its  plum  orchards,  and  noble 
tower  and  street  of  comfortable  red  houses — and  crossed 
Avon  at  length  by  Eckington  Bridge,  under  Bredon 
Hill.  Straight  ahead  of  them  now  ran  a  level  plain 
dotted  with  poplars,  and  stretched — or  seemed  to 
stretch — right  away  to  a  line  of  heights,  far  and  blue, 
which  Mr.  Jessup  (after  questioning  the  chauffeur) 
announced  to  be  the  Malverns. 

At  Bredon  village  just  below,  happening  to  pass  an 
old  woman  in  a  red  shawl,  who  scurried  into  a  door- 
way at  the  toot-toot  of  their  horn,  he  leant  back  and 
confided  that  the  main  drawback  of  this  method  of 
sketching  (he  had  discovered)  was  the  almost  total 
absence  of  middle  distance.  He  scarcely  saw,  as  yet, 
how  it  could  be  overcome. 

"But,"  said  he  thoughtfully,  "the  best  way,  after 
all,  may  be  to  ignore  it.    When  you  come  to  consider, 

247 


TRUE  TILDA 

middle  distance  in  landscape  is  more  or  less  of  a  con- 
vention." 

Nevertheless  Mr.  Jessup  frankly  owned  that  his 
experiments  so  far  dissatisfied  him. 

"I'll  get  the  first  principles  in  time,"  he  promised, 
"and  the  general  hang  of  it.  Just  now  I'm  being  fed 
up  with  its  limitations." 

He  sat  silent  for  a  while  gazing  ahead,  where  the 
great  Norman  tower  and  the  mill  chimneys  of  Tewkes- 
bury now  began  to  lift  themselves  from  the  plain.  And 
coming  to  the  My  the  Bridge,  he  called  a  halt,  bade  the 
children  alight,  and  sent  the  car  on  to  await  him  at  an 
hotel  in  the  High  Street,  recommended  by  the  chauffeur. 

"This,"  said  he,  examining  the  bridge,  "appears  to 
be  of  considerable  antiquity.  If  you'll  allow  me,  I'll 
repose  myself  for  twenty  minutes  in  the  hoary  past." 
Unfolding  a  camp  stool,  he  sat  down  to  sketch. 

The  children  and  'Dolph,  left  to  themselves,  wan- 
dered across  the  bridge.  The  road  beyond  it  stretched 
out  through  the  last  skirts  of  the  town,  and  across  the 
head  of  a  wide  green  level  dotted  with  groups  of  pas- 
turing kine;  and  again  beyond  this  enormous  pasture 
were  glimpses  of  small  white  sails  gliding  in  and  out,  in 
the  oddest  fashion,  behind  clumps  of  trees  and — for 
aught  they  could  see — on  dry  land. 

The  sight  of  these  sails  drew  them  on  until,  lol  on 
a  sudden  they  looked  upon  a  bridge,  far  newer  and 
wider  than  the  one  behind  them,  spanning  a  river  far 

248 


DOWN  AVON 

more  majestic  than  Avon.  Of  the  white  sails  some 
were  tacking  against  its  current,  others  speeding  down- 
stream with  a  brisk  breeze;  and  while  the  children 
stood  there  at  gaze,  a  small  puffing  tug  emerged  from 
under  the  great  arch  of  the  bridge  with  a  dozen  barges 
astern  of  her  in  a  long  line — boats  with  masts  and 
bulkier  than  any  known  to  Tilda.  They  seemed  to  her 
strong  enough  to  hoist  sail  and  put  out  to  sea  on  their 
own  account,  instead  of  crawling  thus  in  the  wake  of 
a  tug. 

There  was  an  old  road-mender  busy  by  the  bridge 
end,  shovelling  together  the  road  scrapings  in  small 
heaps.  He  looked  up  and  nodded.  His  face  was  kindly, 
albeit  a  trifle  foolish,  and  he  seemed  disposed  to  talk. 

"Good-day!"  said  Tilda.  "Can  you  tell  us  where 
the  boats  are  goin'  ?" 

The  old  road-mender  glanced  over  the  parapet. 

"  Eh  ?    The  trows,  d  'ee  mean  ?" 

"  Trows  ?    Is  that  what  they  are  ?  " 

"Ay;  and  they  be  goin'  down  to  Glo'ster  first,  an' 
thence  away  to  Sharpness  Dock.  They  go  through 
the  Glo'ster  an'  Berkeley,  and  at  Sharpness  they  finish." 

"Is  that  anywhere  in  the  Bristol  Channel?" 

The  old  man  ruminated  for  a  moment. 

"You  may  call  it  so.  Gettin'  on  for  that,  anyway. 
Fine  boats  they  be;  mons'rously  improved  in  my  time. 
But  where  d  'ee  come  from,  you  two? — here  in  Tew- 
kesbury, an'  not  to  know  about  Severn  trows?" 

249 


TRUE  TILDA 

"We've — er — ^jus'  run  over  here  for  the  afternoon, 
in  a  motor,"  said  Tilda — and  truthfully;  but  it  left  the 
old  man  gasping. 

The  children  strolled  on,  idling  by  the  bridge's  par- 
apet, watching  the  strong  current,  the  small  boats  as 
they  tacked  to  and  fro.  Up-stream  another  tug  hove  in 
sight,  also  with  a  line  of  trows  behind  her.  This  became 
exciting,  and  Tilda  suggested  waiting  and  dropping 
a  stone — a  very  small  one — upon  the  tug's  deck  as  she 
passed  under  the  archway. 

"If  only  she  could  take  us  on!"  said  Arthur  Miles. 

"We'd  'ave  to  drop  a  big  stone  for  that"  Tilda 
opined. 

And  with  that  suddenly  'Dolph,  who  had  been 
chasing  a  robin,  and  immersed  in  that  futile  sport, 
started  to  bark — uneasily  and  in  small  yaps  at  first, 
then  in  paroxysms  interrupted  by  eager  whines. 

"W'y,  wot's  the  matter  with  'im?"  asked  Tilda. 
"Look  now!" 

For  the  dog  had  sprung  upon  the  parapet  and  stood 
there,  with  neck  extended  and  body  quivering  as  he 
saluted  the  on-coming  tug. 

"'E  can't  see.  .  .  .  No,  surely,  it  can't  be — "  said 
Tilda,  staring. 

The  tug  was  so  near  by  this  time  that  they  could 
read  her  name,  Severn  Belle,  on  the  bows.  Two  men 
stood  on  her  deck — one  aft  at  the  tiller  (for  she  had  no 
wheel-house),  the  other  a  little  forward  of  midships, 

250 


DOWN  AVON 

leaning  over  the  port  bulwarks;  this  latter  a  stoker 
apparently,  or  an  engineer,  or  a  combination  of  both; 
for  he  was  capless,  and  wore  a  smoke-grimed  flannel 
shirt,  open  at  the  breast. 

Tilda  could  see  this  distinctly  as  the  tug  drew  near; 
for  the  man  was  looking  up,  staring  steadily  at  the  dog 
on  the  parapet.  His  chest  was  naked.  A  cake  of  coal- 
dust  obscured  his  features. 

"It  can't  be,"  said  Tilda;  and  then,  as  the  tug  drew 
close,  she  flung  herself  against  the  parapet. 

"Bill!    Oh,  Bill!" 

"Cheer-oh!"  answered  a  voice,  now  already  among 
the  echoes  of  the  arch. 

"Oh,  Bill!  .  .  .  Where?"  She  had  run  across  the 
roadway.    "  Oh,  Bill— take  us ! " 

The  boy  running,  too — yet  not  so  quickly  as  'Dolph 
— caught  a  vision  of  a  face  upturned  in  blankest  amaze- 
ment as  tug  and  barges  swept  down-stream  out  of 
reach.  But  Tilda  still  hailed,  beating  back  the  dog,  to 
silence  his  barking. 

"Oh,  Bill!    Where  're  yer  goin'?" 

As  she  had  cried  it,  so  in  agony  she  listened  for  the 
response.  It  came;  but  Arthur  Miles  could  not  distin- 
guish the  word,  nor  tell  if  Tilda  had  heard  better.  She 
had  caught  his  hand,  and  they  were  running  together 
as  fast  as  their  small  legs  could  carry  them. 

The  chase  was  hopeless  from  the  first.  The  tug,  in 
mid-stream,  gave  no  sign  of  drawing  to  shore.     Some- 

251 


TRUE  TILDA 

how — but  exactly  how  the  boy  could  never  tell — they 
were  racing  after  her  down  the  immense  length  of  the 
green  meadow. 

It  seemed  endless,  did  this  meadow.  But  it  ended 
at  last,  by  a  grassy  shore  where  the  two  rivers  met,  cut- 
ting off  and  ending  all  hope.  And  here,  for  the  first  and 
only  time  on  their  voyage,  all  Tilda's  courage  forsook 
her. 

"  Bill !  Oh,  Bill ! "  she  wailed,  standing  at  the  water's 
edge  and  stretching  forth  her  hands  across  the  relentless 
flood. 

But  the  dog,  barking  desperately  beside  her,  drowned 
her  voice,  and  no  answer  came. 


252 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   S.S.     EVAN   EVANS 

"Then  three  times  round  went  our  gallant  ship." 

— Old  Song. 

The  time  is  next  morning,  and  the  first  gray  hour  of 
daylight.  The  scene,  an  unlovely  tidal  basin  crowded 
with  small  shipping — schooners  and  brigan tines  dingy 
with  coal-dust,  tramp  steamers,  tugs,  Severn  trows; 
a  ship  lock  and  beyond  it  the  river,  now  grown  into  a 
broad  flood  all  gray  and  milky  in  the  dawn. 

Tilda  and  Arthur  Miles  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  basin, 
with  Godolphus  between  them,  and  stared  down  on 
the  deck  of  the  Severn  Belle  tug,  waiting  for  some  sign 
of  life  to  declare  itself  on  board.  By  leave  of  a  kindly 
cranesman,  they  had  spent  the  night  in  a  galvanised 
iron  shed  where  he  stored  his  cinders,  and  the  warmth 
in  the  cinders  had  kept  them  comfortable.  But  the 
dawn  was  chilly,  and  now  they  had  only  their  excite- 
ment to  keep  them  warm.  For  some  reason  best 
known  to  himself  the  dog  did  not  share  in  this  excite- 
ment, and  only  the  firm  embrace  of  Tilda's  arm  around 
his  chest  and  shoulders  held  him  from  wandering.  Now 
and  again  he  protested  against  this  restraint. 

253 


TRUE  TILDA 

Tilda's  eyes  never  left  the  tug;  but  the  boy  kept 
intermittent  watch  only,  being  busy  writing  with  the 
stump  of  a  pencil  on  a  scrap  of  paper  he  had  spread  on 
the  gritty  concrete.  Somewhere  in  the  distance  a  hooter 
sounded,  proclaiming  the  hour.  Still  but  the  thinnest 
thread  of  smoke  issued  from  the  tug's  funnel. 

"  It's  not  like  Bill,"  Tilda  muttered.  "  'E  was  always 
partic'lar  about  early  risin'.  ,  .  .  An'  I  don't  know 
what  you  feel  like,  Arthur  Miles,  but  /  could  do  with 
breakfast." 

"And  a  wash,"  suggested  the  boy. 

"It  don't  look  appetisin' — not  even  if  we  knew  'ow 
to  swim,"  said  Tilda,  relaxing  her  watch  for  an  instant 
only,  and  studying  the  water  in  the  basin.  "We  must 
'old  on — 'old  on  an'  wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by — that 
was  one  of  Bill's  sayin's.  An'  to  think  of  'im  bein'  so 
near!"  Tilda  never  laughed,  but  some  mirth  in  her 
voice  anticipated  Bill's  astonishment.  "Now  read  me 
what  yer  've  written." 

"It's  no  more  than  what  you  told  me." 

"Never  mind;  let's  'ear  if  it's  c'rect." 

Arthur  Miles  read: 

Dear  Mr.  Hucks, — This  comes  to  say  that  we  are 
not  at  Hohnness  yet,  but  getting  on.  This  place  is  called 
Sharpness,  and  does  a  big  trade,  and  the  size  of  the  ship- 
ping would  make  you  wonder,  after  Bursfield.  We  left 
S.  B.  and  the  M.'s  at  Stratford,  as  'per  my  favour 

"  Wliat  does  that  mean  ?  "  asked  the  scribe,  looking  up. 

254 


THE  S.S.  EVAN  EVANS 

"It's  what  they  always  put  into  business  letters." 
"  But  what  does  it  mean  ?" 

"It  means — well,  it  means  you're  just  as  sharp  as  th' 
other  man,  so  'e  needn'  try  it  on." 

— as  'per  my  favour  of  yesterday.  And  just  below  Strat- 
ford we  picked  up  with  a  painter  from  America,  but  quite 
the  gentleman,  as  you  will  see  by  his  taking  us  on  to  a 
place  called  Tukesberry  in  a  real  moter  car. 

[Let  it  be  pleaded  for  Arthur  Miles  that  his  spelling 
had  been  outstripped  of  late  by  his  experience.  His 
sentences  were  as  Tilda  had  constructed  them  in 
dictation.] 

Which  at  Tukesberry,  happening  to  come  across  a  gen- 
tleman friend  of  mine,  as  used  to  work  for  Gavel,  and  by 
name  William,  this  American  gentleman 

"Sounds  odd,  don't  it?"  interposed  Tilda. 

"There's  too  much  about  gentlemen  in  it,"  the  boy 
suggested. 

"Well,  but  you're  a  gentleman.  We  shall  find  that 
out,  right  enough,  when  we  get  to  'Olmness.  'Ucks 
don't  know  that,  and  I'm  tonin'  'im  up  to  it.  .  .  .  You 
'aven't  put  in  what  I  told  yer — about  me  tellin'  Mr. 
Jessup  as  Bill  was  my  brother-in-law  an'  'is  callin'  back 
to  us  that  'e'd  look  after  us  'ere." 

"No." 

"W'ynot?" 

There  was  reason  for  Tilda's  averted  gaze.     She 

265 


TRUE  TILDA 

had  to  watch  the  tug's  deck.  But  why  did  her  face 
flush? 

"Because  it  isn't  true." 

"It  got  us  'ere,"  she  retorted.  "True  or  not, 
'twouldn'  do  yer  no  'arm  to  allow  that,  seemin'  to  me." 

Although  she  said  it  defiandy,  her  tone  carried  no 
conviction. 

Arthur  Miles  made  no  response,  but  read  on : 

— this  American  gentleman  paid  our  fares  on  by  railway 
to  join  him,  and  gave  us  half  a  suffering  for  X.'s. 

"Is  that  right?" 

"Sure,"  said  Tilda.  "Gold  money  is  all  sufferin's 
or  'arf-sufferin's.  I  got  it  tied  in  a  corner  o'  what  INIiss 
Montagu  taught  me  to  call  my  shimmy — shifts  bein' 
vulgar,  she  said." 

— So  here  we  are,  and  W.  B.  capital.  Which  we  hope  to 
post  our  next  from  Holmness,  and  remain, 

Yours  respectfully, 

Tilda. 
William  will  post  this. 

"But  you're  not  sure  of  that,  you  know,"  he  urged. 

Hereat  Tilda  found  the  excuse  she  wanted  for  losing 
her  temper  (for  her  falsehood — or,  rather,  the  boy's 
pained  disapproval  of  it — yet  shamed  her). 

"'Oo  brought  yer  'ere,  I'd  like  to  know?  And 
where  'd  yer  be  at  this  moment  if  'twasn't  for  me 
an'  '  Dolph  ?    In   Glasson's   black  'ole,   that's   where 

250 


THE  S.S.  EVAN  EVANS 

yer   'd    bel     An'  now    sittin'  'ere  so  'igh-an'-mighty, 
an'  lecturin'!" 

The  boy's  eyes  had  filled  with  tears. 

"But  I'm  not— I'm  not!"  he  protested.  "Til- 
da!  " 

"As  if,"  she  jerked  out  between  two  hard,  dry  sobs 
(Tilda,  by  the  way,  never  wept) — "as  if  I  wasn'  sure, 
after  chasin'  Bill  all  this  way  on  purpose,  and  'im  the 
best  of  men!" 

Just  at  this  moment  there  emerged  from  the  after- 
companion  of  the  Severn  Belle,  immediately  below 
them,  a  large  head  shaped  like  an  enormous  pear — 
shaped,  that  is,  as  if  designed  to  persuade  an  upward 
passage  through  difficult  hatchways,  so  narrow  was  the 
cranium  and  so  extremely  full  the  jowl.  It  was  followed 
by  a  short  bull  neck  and  a  heavy  pair  of  shoulders  in  a 
shirt  of  dirty  gray  flannel;  and  having  emerged  so  far, 
the  apparition  paused  for  a  look  around.  It  was  the 
steersman  of  yesterday  afternoon. 

"'UUo,  below  there!"  Tilda  hailed  him. 

"'Ullo  yerself!"  The  man  looked  up  and  blinked. 
"  W'y,  if  you  ain't  the  gel  and  boy?" 

"Where's  Bill?"  she  asked,  cutting  him  short. 

"Bill?" 

"Yes,  Bill — w'ich  'is  full  name  is  William;  an*  if 
'e's  sleepin'  below  I'd  arsk  yer  to  roust  'im  out." 

"Oh,"  said  the  stout  man  slowly,  "Bill,  is  it?— Bill? 
Well,  he's  gone." 

257 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Gone?" 

"Ay;  'e's  a  rollin'  stone,  if  you  wants  my  opinion — 
'ere  ter-day  an'  gone  ter-morrow,  as  you  might  put  it. 
There's  plenty  o'  that  sort  knockin'  around  " 

"D'  yer  mean — ter  say  as  Bill's — gonef" 

"  Maybe  I  didn't  make  myself  clear,"  answered  the 
stout  man  politely.  "Yes,  gone  'e  'as,  'avin'  only 
shipped  on  for  the  trip.  At  Stourport.  Me  bein' 
short-'anded  and  'im  fresh  off  the  drink." 

"But  Bill  doesn't  drink,"  protested  Tilda,  indignant 
in  dismay. 

"  Oh,  doesn't  'e  ?  Then  we're  talkin'  of  two  different 
parties,  an'  'ad  best  begin  over  again.  .  .  .  But  maybe," 
conceded  the  stout  man  on  second  thoughts,  "you  only 
seen  'im  sober.  It  makes  a  difference.  The  man  I 
mean's  dossin'  ashore  somewhere.  An',  I  should  say, 
drinkin'  'ard,"  he  added  reflectively. 

But  here  Godolphus  interrupted  the  conversation, 
wriggling  himself  backward  and  with  a  sudden  yap 
out  of  Tilda's  clutch.  Boy  and  girl  turned,  and  beheld 
him  rush  toward  a  tall,  loose-kneed  man,  clad  in  dirty 
dungaree,  dark-haired  and  dark-avised  with  coal-dust, 
who  came  slouching  toward  the  quay's  edge. 

"Bill!   Oh,  Bill!"    Tilda  sprang  up  with  a  cry. 

Perhaps  the  cry  was  drowned  in  the  dog's  ecstatic 
barking.  The  man — he  had  obviously  been  drinking 
— paid  no  attention  to  either;  or,  rather,  he  seemed 
(since  he  could  not  disregard  it)  to  take  the  dog's  salu- 

258 


THE  S.S.  EVAN  EVANS 

tation  for  granted,  and  came  lurching  on,  fencing  back 
'Dolph's  affectionate  leaps. 

"G' way!" 

He  advanced  unsteadily  toward  the  edge  of  the 
basin,  not  perceiving,  or  at  any  rate  not  recognising  the 
children,  though  close  to  them. 

"Lef  my  cap  be'ind,"  he  grumbled;  "elst  they 
stole  it." 

He  drew  himself  up  at  the  water's  edge,  a  dozen 
yards  or  so  wide  of  the  Severn  Belle's  stern. 

"Oh,  Bill!"  Tilda  flung  herself  before  him  as  he 
stood  swaying. 

"'Ullo!"  He  recognised  her  slowly.  "And  wot 
might  you  be  doin'  'ere  ?  Come  to  remember,  saw  you 
yesterday — you  and  your  frien'.  Yes,  o'  course — ver' 
glad  t'  meet  yer — an'  yer  friend — any  friend  o*  yours 
welcome,  'm  sure." 

He  stretched  out  a  hand  of  cordiality  toward  Arthur 
Miles. 

"Oh,  Bill — we've  been  countin'  on  yer  so — ^me  an' 
'Dolph.  This  is  Arthur  Miles,  an'  I've  told  'im  all 
along  as  you're  the  best  and  'elpfullest  o'  men — an'  so 
you  are,  if  you  pull  yerself  together.  'E  only  wants  to 
get  to  a  place  called  'Olmness,  w'ich  is  right  below 
'ere " 

"'Olmness?" 

"It's  an  Island,  somewhere  in  the  Bristol  Channel. 

It — it  can't  be  far,  Bill — an'  I  got  'arf-a-sufferin' " 

259 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Where?"  asked  Bill  with  unexpected  promptness. 

"Never  you  mind,  just  now." 

Bill  assumed  an  air  of  injured  but  anxious  virtue. 

"  'Course,  if  you  don't  choose  to  trust  me,  it's  another 
matter,  .  .  .  but  I'd  like  to  know  you  came  by  it 
honest." 

"Of  course  she  did!"  Arthur  Miles  spoke  up  to  the 
rescue  hotly. 

Bill  turned  a  stare  on  him,  but  dropped  it,  some- 
what abashed. 

"Oh,  well,  I'm  not  sayin'  .  .  ."he  muttered  sulkily, 
and  then  with  a  change  of  tone,  "  but  find  yer  an  Island 
— somewheres  in  the  Bristol  Channel — me!  It's 
ridicklus." 

Tilda  averted  her  face,  and  appeared  to  study  the 
masts  of  the  shipping.  Her  cheek  was  red  and  some- 
thing worked  in  her  throat,  but  in  a  Jew  seconds  she 
answered  quite  cheerfully: 

"Well,  the  first  thing  is  to  pick  up  a  breakfast.  If 
Bill  can't  find  us  an  Island,  maybe  'e  can  show  us  a 
respectable  'ouse,  where  they  make  their  cawfee  strong 
— an'  not  the  'ouse  where  'e  slept  last  night,  if  it's  all 
the  same  to  'im." 

They  found  a  small  but  decent  tavern — "The 
Wharfingers'  Arms,  Shipping  Gazette  daily" — and 
breakfasted  on  coffee  and  boiled  eggs.  The  coffee  was 
strong  and  sticky.    It  did  Bill  good.    But  he  persisted 

260 


THE  S.S.  EVAN  EVANS 

in  treating  the  adventure  as  a  wild-goose  chase.  He 
had  never  heard  of  Holmness.  It  was  certainly  not  a 
port;  and,  that  being  so,  how — unless  they  chartered 
a  steamer — could  they  be  landed  there  ? 

"That's  for  you  to  find  out,"  maintained  Tilda. 

"Well,"  said  he,  rising  from  the  meal,  "I  don't 
mind  lookin'  around  an'  makin'  a  few  inquiries  for 
yer.    But  I  warn  yer  both  it's  'opeless." 

"You  can  post  this  letter  on  yer  way,"  she  com- 
manded.   "I'll  pay  fer  the  breakfast." 

But  confidence  forsook  her  as  through  the  small 
window  they  watched  him  making  his  way — still  a 
trifle  unsteadily — toward  the  docks.  For  a  litde  dis- 
tance 'Dolph  followed  him,  but  halted,  stood  for  a 
minute  wagging  his  tail,  and  so  came  trotting  back. 

"  'E'll  manage  it,"  said  Tilda  at  length. 

Arthur  Miles  did  not  answer. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you're  thinkin'I"  she  broke  out. 
"But  'tisn'  every  one  can  look  down  on  folks  bein'  born 
with  your  advantages!"  She  pulled  herself  up  sharply, 
glancing  at  the  back  of  the  boy's  head;  for  he  had 
turned  his  face  aside.  "No — I  didn'  mean  that.  An' 
— an'  the  way  you  stood  up  fer  me  bein'  honest  was 
jus'  splendid — after  what  you'd  said  about  tellin'  lies, 
too." 

They  wandered  about  the  docks  all  day,  dodging 
oflScial  observation,  and  ate  their  midday  crust  behind 

261 


TRUE  TILDA 

the  cinder  shed  that  had  been  their  shelter  over-night. 
Tilda  had  regained  and  kept  her  old  courage,  and  in 
the  end  her  faith  was  justified. 

Toward  nightfall  Bill  sought  them  out  where  he 
had  first  found  them,  by  the  quay  edge  close  above  the 
Severn  Belle. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said.  "I  done  it  fer  yer.  See 
that  boat  yonder?"  He  jerked  his  thumb  toward  a 
small  cargo  steamer  lying  on  the  far  side  of  the  basin, 
and  now  discernible  only  as  a  black  blur  in  the  foggy 
twilight.  "She's  the  Evan  Evans  of  Cardiff,  an'  bound 
for  Cardiff.  Far  as  I  can  larn,  Cardiff's  your  port, 
though  I  don't  say  a  'andy  one.  Fact  is,  there's  no 
'andy  one.  They  seem  to  say  the  place  lies  out  of  every- 
one's track  close  down  against  the  Somerset  coast — or, 
it  may  be,  Devon:  they're  not  clear.  Anyway,"  he 
wound  up  vaguely,  "at  Cardiff  there  may  be  pleasure 
steamers  runnin',  or  something  o'  the  sort." 

"Bill,  you're  an  angel!" 

"I  shipped  for  a  stoker,"  said  Bill. 

"But  what '11  it  cost?" 

"  I  don't  want  ter  speak  boas'ful,  after  the  tone  you 
took  with  me  this  mornin'" — Bill  spoke  with  scarcely 
dissembled  pride — "but  that's  where  the  cleverness 
comes  in.  You  see,  there  ain't  no  skipper  to  'er — least- 
ways not  till  ter-morrow.  The  old  man's  taken  train 
an'  off  to  Bristol,  to  attend  a  revival  meetin',  or  some- 
thing o'  the  sort — bein'  turned  pious  since  'is  wife  died, 

202 


THE  S.S.  EVAN  EVANS 

w'ich  is  about  eighteen  months  ago.  I  got  that  from 
the  mate,  when  'e  shipped  me.  The  mate's  in  charge; 
with  the  engineer  an'  two  'ands.  The  engineer — 'e's  a 
Scotchman — 'as  as  much  whisky  inside  'im  already  as 
a  man  can  'old  an'  keep  'is  legs;  an'  the  'ole  gang  '11  be 
goin'  ashore  again  to-night — all  but  the  mate.  The 
mate  'as  to  keep  moderate  sober  an'  lock  'er  out  on  first 
'igh  water  ter-morrow  for  Kingroad,  where  she'll  pick 
up  the  old  man ;  and  as  natcher'lly  'e'll  want  somebody 
sober  down  in  the  engine-room,  'e's  got  to  rely  on  me. 
So  now  you  see." 

"I  think  I  see,"  said  Tilda  slowly.  "We're  to  ship 
as  stowaways." 

"You  may  call  it  so,  though  the  word  don't  'ardly 
seem  to  fit.  I've  'eard  tell  of  stowaways,  but  never  as 
I  remember  of  a  pair  as  'ad  the  use  of  the  captain's 
cabin,  and  'im  a  widower  with  an  extry  bunk  still  fitted 
for  the  deceased.  O'  course  we'll  'ave  to  smuggle  yer 
away  somewheres  before  the  old  man  comes  aboard. 
But  the  mate  '11  do  that  easy.    'E  promised  me." 

"Bill,  you  are  an  angel!" 

It  was,  after  all,  absurdly  easy,  as  Bill  had  promised; 
and  the  easier  by  help  of  the  river  fog,  which  by  nine 
o'clock — the  hour  agreed  upon — had  gathered  to  a 
thick  gray  consistency.  If  the  dock  were  policed  at 
this  hour,  no  police,  save  by  the  veriest  accident,  could 
have  detected  the  children  crouching  with  'Dolph  be- 

263 


TRUE  TILDA 

hind  a  breastwork  of  paraffin  casks,  and  waiting  for 
Bill's  signal — the  first  two  or  three  bars  of  The  Blue 
Bells  of  Scotland  whistled  thrice  over. 

The  signal  came.  The  gang-plank  was  out,  ready 
for  the  crew's  return;  and  at  the  head  of  it  Bill  met  the 
fugitives,  with  a  caution  to  tread  softly  when  they 
reached  the  deck.  The  mate  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
Bill  whispered  that  he  was  in  his  own  cabin  "holding 
off  the  drink,"  whatever  that  might  mean. 

He  conducted  them  to  the  after-companion,  where, 
repeating  his  caution,  he  stepped  in  front  of  the  children 
and  led  the  way  down  a  narrow  twisting  staircase.  At 
the  foot  of  it  he  pushed  open  a  door,  and  they  gazed 
into  a  neat  apartment,  panelled  with  mirrors  and  bird's- 
eye  maple.  A  swing-lamp  shone  down  upon  a  white- 
covered  table;  and  upon  the  table  were  bread  and 
cheese  and  biscuits,  with  a  jug  of  water  and  glasses. 
Alongside  the  table  ran  two  bunks,  half-curtained, 
clean,  cosey,  and  inviting. 

"Say  what  yer  like,"  said  Tilda  half  an  hour  later 
as,  having  selected  their  bunks,  the  children  com- 
posed themselves  to  sleep,  "but  Bill  'as  the  'ead  of 
the  two." 

"Which  two?"  asked  the  boy,  not  quite  ingenuously. 

"As  if  I  didn'  know  yer  was  comparin'  'im  with  Sam 
Bossom  all  day!  W'y,  I  seen  it  in  yer  face!"  Getting 
no  answer,  she  went  on  after  a  pause,  "Sam  'd  never 
a'  thought  o'  this,  not  if  'e'd  lived  to  be  a  'undred." 

264 


THE  S.S.  EVAN  EVANS 

"All  the  same,  I  like  Sam  better,"  said  the  boy 
sleepily. 

They  slept  soundly  after  their  wanderings.  The  crew 
returned  shordy  before  half-past  eleven,  and  tumbled 
aboard  "happy  and  glorious" — so  Bill  afterward  de- 
scribed their  condition,  in  the  language  of  the  National 
Anthem.  But  the  racket  was  mainly  for'ard,  and  did 
not  awake  the  children.  After  this,  silence  descended 
on  the  Evan  Evans,  and  lasted  for  five  long  hours. 
Still  they  slept;  and  the  voice  of  the  mate,  when  a  little 
before  dawn  he  started  cursing  and  calling  to  the  men 
to  tumble  up,  was  a  voice  heard  in  dreams  and  without 
alarm. 

•  It  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  scarcely  more  operative 
in  the  forecasde  than  in  the  cabin.  But  Bill  in  the 
intervals  of  slumber  had  visited  the  furnaces,  and  kept 
up  a  good  head  of  steam ;  and  in  the  chill  of  dawn  he 
and  the  mate  cast  off  warps  and  (with  the  pilot)  worked 
the  steamer  out  through  the  ship  lock,  practically  un- 
aided. The  mate,  when  not  in  liquor,  was  a  first-class 
seaman;  and  Bill,  left  alone  between  the  furnaces  and 
the  engines,  perspired  in  all  the  glory  of  his  true  vocation. 

The  noise  of  hooting,  loud  and  protracted,  awoke 
Tilda  at  last,  and  she  raised  herself  in  her  bunk  to  stare 
at  the  apparition  of  Bill  in  the  cabin  doorway — a  terri- 
fying apparition,  too,  black  with  coal-dust  and  shining 
with  sweat. 

265 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Wot's  'appened?" 

For  one  moment  her  sleepy  brain  confused  him 
with  the  diaboHcal  noise  overhead. 

"  Nothin V'  he  answered,  "  'cept  that  you  must  tum- 
ble out  quick,  you  two.  We're  off  Avonmouth,  an'  the 
whistle's  goin'  for  the  old  man." 

They  tumbled  out  and  redded  up  the  place  in  a  hur- 
ry, folding  away  the  rugs  and  linen — which  Bill,  with 
his  grimed  fingers,  did  not  dare  to  touch — and  stowing 
them  as  he  directed.  A  damp  fog  permeated  the  cabin. 
Even  the  engine-room  (Bill  reported)  was  full  of  it,  and 
how  the  mate  had  brought  her  along  through  it  and 
picked  up  Avonmouth  was  a  marvel. 

"  Single-'anded,  too,  as  you  may  say.  'E's  a  world's 
wonder,  that  man." 

The  children,  too,  thought  it  marvellous  when  they 
reached  the  deck  and  gazed  about  them.  They  could 
spy  no  shore,  not  so  much  as  a  blur  to  indicate  it,  but 
were  wrapped  wholly  in  a  gray  fog;  and  down  over  the 
steamer's  tall  sides  (for  she  was  returning  light  after  de- 
livering a  cargo  of  Welsh  coal)  they  stared  upon  nothing 
but  muddy  water  crawling  beneath  the  fog. 

They  heard  the  mate's  voice  calling  from  the  bridge, 
and  the  fog  seemed  to  remove  both  bridge  and  voice  to 
an  immeasurable  height  above  them. 

It  was  just  possible  to  descry  the  length  of  the  ship, 
and  they  saw  two  figures  bestir  themselves  forward. 
A  voice  answered,  "Ay,  ay,  sir!"  but  thickly  and  as 

266 


THE  S.S.  EVAN  EVANS 

If  muffled  by  cotton  wool.  One  of  the  two  men  came 
running,  halted  amidships,  lifted  out  a  panel  of  the 
bulwarks,  set  in  a  slide  between  two  white-painted 
stanchions,  and  let  down  an  accommodation  ladder. 

"Evan  Evans,  ahoy!"  came  a  voice  from  the  fog. 

"Ahoy,  sir!"  sang  out  the  mate's  voice  high  over- 
head, and  between  two  blasts  of  the  whistle,  and  just 
at  this  moment  a  speck — a  small  blur — hove  out  of  the 
gray  on  the  port  side.  It  was  the  skipper  arriving  in 
a  shore  boat. 

The  children  dodged  behind  a  deck-house  as  he 
came  up  the  ladder — a  thin  little  man  habited  much 
like  a  Nonconformist  minister,  and  wearing — of  all 
amazing  head-gear — a  top  hat,  the  brim  of  which  shed 
moisture  in  a  steady  trickle.  A  gray  plaid  shawl 
swathed  his  shoulders,  and  the  fringe  of  this  dripped 
too,  as  he  gained  the  deck  and  stepped  briskly  aft,  with- 
out so  much  as  a  word  to  the  men  standing  at  the  head 
of  the  ladder,  to  whom  after  a  minute  the  mate  called 
down. 

"Sam  Lloyd!" 

"Ay,  ay,  sir!" 

"What  did  'e  say?" 

"Nothin',  sir." 

Apparently  the  children  were  not  alone  in  finding 
this  singular,  for  after  another  minute  the  mate  de- 
scended from  the  bridge,  walked  aft,  and  followed  his 
chief  down  the  companion.    He  stayed  below  for  close 

267 


TRUE  TILDA 

on  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  steamer  all  this  while 
moving  dead  slow,  with  just  a  hazy  turn  now  and  then 
of  her  propeller.  When  he  returned  it  was  with  a  bottle 
in  his  hand  and  a  second  bottle  under  his  arm. 

"Cracked  as  a  drum,"  he  announced  to  the  seaman 
Lloyd  on  his  way  back  to  the  bridge.  "Says  'e's  'ad 
a  revelation." 

"A  wot?" 

"A  revelation.  Says  'e  'card  a  voice  from  'eaven  las' 
night,  tellin'  'im  as  Faith  was  dead  in  these  times;  that 
if  a  man  only  'ad  Faith  'e  could  let  everything  else  rip 
.  .  .  and,"  concluded  the  mate  heavily,  resting  his 
unoccupied  hand  on  the  ladder,  "'e's  down  below 
tryin'  it." 

The  seaman  did  not  answer.  The  mate  ascended 
again,  and  vanished  in  the  fog.  After  a  pause  a  bell 
tinkled  deep  down  in  the  bowels  of  the  ship.  Her  pro- 
peller began  to  churn  the  water,  very  slowly  at  first, 
then  with  gathering  speed,  and  the  Evan  Evans  forged 
ahead,  shouldering  her  way  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
fog. 

It  had  certainly  grown  denser.  There  was  not  the 
slightest  reason  for  the  children  to  hide.  No  one  came 
near  them ;  they  could  see  nothing  but  the  wet  and  dirty 
deck,  the  cook's  galley  close  by  (in  which,  as  it  hap- 
pened, the  cook  lay  in  drunken  slumber),  and  a  boat 
swinging  on  davits  close  above  their  heads,  between 
them  and  the  limitless  gray.    Bill  had  disappeared  some 

268 


THE  S.S.  EVAN  EVANS 

time  before  the  skipper  came  aboard,  and  was  busy,  no 
doubt,  in  the  engine-room.  In  the  shrouded  bows  one 
of  the  crew  was  working  a  fog-horn  at  irregular  inter- 
vals, and  for  a  while  every  blast  was  answered  by  a 
hoot  from  the  steam-whistle  above  the  bridge. 

This  lasted  three  hours  or  more.  Then,  though  the 
fog-horn  continued  spasmodically,  the  whistle  fell  un- 
accountably silent.  The  children  scarcely  noted  this; 
they  were  occupied  with  staring  into  the  fog. 

Of  a  sudden  the  bridge  awoke  to  life  again,  and  now 
with  the  bell.  Ting  .  .  .  ting,  ting,  ting — ting — titig, 
ting,  ting — then  ting,  ting  again. 

The  fog-horn  stopped  as  though  to  listen.  By  and 
by,  as  from  minute  to  minute  the  bridge  continued  this 
eccentric  performance,  even  the  children  became  aware 
that  something  was  amiss. 

Abruptly  the  ringing  ceased,  ceased  just  as  a  tall 
man — it  was  the  Scotch  engineer — emerged  from  some- 
where below  and  stood  steadying  himself  by  the  rail  of 
the  ladder. 

"What  the  deevil?"  he  demanded  angrily,  staring 
aloft.    "  What  the  deev " 

Here  he  collapsed  on  the  lowest  step.  (A  Glasgow 
man  must  be  drunk  indeed  before  he  loses  his  legs.) 

The  seaman  Sam  Lloyd  came  running,  jumped  over 
the  engineer's  prostrate  body  and  climbed  to  the  bridge. 
There  was  a  brief  silence,  and  then  he  shouted  down : 

"Dave!    Dave  Morgan!" 

269 


TRUE  TILDA 

"  Ahoy !    What's  wrong  there  ?  " 

Another  seaman  came  staggering  aft. 

"Run,  one  o'  you  an'  fetch  up  th'  old  man.  Mate 
'e's  dead  drunk  'ere,  an'  the  ship  pointin'  any  way  this 
'arf  hour." 

"I — I  canna,"  said  the  engineer,  raising  himself 
erect  from  the  waist  and  collapsing  again;  but  the 
other  staggered  on  and  disappeared  down  the  com- 
panion hatchway.  Two  or  three  minutes  passed  before 
he  re-emerged. 

"It's  no  go,"  he  shouted  up.  "Skipper  says  as  we 
must  'ave  Faith.  Called  me  an  onbelievin'  generation 
o'  vipers,  an'  would  I  kindly  leave  'im  alone  to  wrastle." 

"Faith?"  fairly  yelled  the  voice  from  the  bridge. 
"Tell  'ira  the  man's  lyin'  'ere  outside  o'  three  pints  o' 
neat  Irish — tell  'im  she's  been  chasin'  'er  own  tail  for 
this  two-three  hours — tell  'im  the  sound  o'  breakers 
is  distinkly  audibble  on  the  lee  bow — tell  'im — oh,  for 
Gawd's  sake,  tell  'im  any  think  so's  it  '11  fetch  'im  up!" 

Dave  Morgan  dived  down  the  companion  again,  and 
after  a  long  interval  returned  with  the  skipper  at  his 
heels.  The  old  man  was  bareheaded  now,  and  the 
faint  breeze,  blowing  back  his  gray  locks,  exposed  a 
high  intellectual  forehead  underset  with  a  pair  of  eyes 
curiously  vague  and  at  the  same  time  introspective. 

The  old  man  clutched  at  the  coaming  that  ran 
around  the  hatchway,  steadied  himself,  and  gazed 
around  upon  the  fog. 

270 


THE  S.S.  EVAN  EVANS 

"'Eavenly  Father!"  he  said  aloud  and  reproach- 
fully, "^/iw  won't  do!" 

And  with  that  he  came  tripping  forward  to  the 
bridge  with  a  walk  like  a  bird's.  At  the  sight  of  Tilda 
and  Arthur  Miles,  who  in  their  plight  had  made  no 
effort  to  hide,  he  drew  himself  up  suddenly. 

"  Stowaways  ?"  he  said.  "  I'll  talk  to  you  presently." 
He  stepped  over  the  engineer.  "Heh?  What's  the 
matter?"  he  called  up  as  he  put  his  foot  on  the  ladder. 

"Mate's  drunk  an'  'ncapable,  sir,"  answered  the 
seaman  from  above. 

"What  o'  that?"  was  the  unexpected  reply.  "Let 
the  poor  body  lie,  an'  you  hold  her  to  her  course." 

"But  she's  chasin'  'er  tail,  sir.  She's  pointin'  near 
as  possible  due  south  at  this  moment,  an'  no  tellin'  'ow 
long  it's  lasted " 

"Then  brin'  her  round  to  west — west  an'  a  point 
south,  an'  hold  her  to  it.  You've  got  no  Faith,  Samuel 
Lloyd, — an'  me  wrestlin'  with  the  Lord  for  you  this 
three  hours.  See  yonder!" — the  skipper  waved  a 
hand  toward  the  bows,  and  his  voice  rose  to  a  note  of 
triumph. 

Sure  enough,  during  the  last  two  or  three  minutes 
the  appearance  of  the  fog  had  changed.  It  was  dense 
still,  but  yellower  in  colour  and  even  faintly  luminous. 

From  the  bridge  came  no  answer. 

"Liftin',  that's  what  it  is,  an'  I  ask  the  Lord's  par- 
don for  lettin'  myself  be  disturbed  by  ye." 

271 


TRUE  TILDA 

The  skipper  turned  to  leave  the  ladder,  of  which  he 
had  climbed  but  half  a  dozen  steps. 

"Liftin'  it  may  be" — Lloyd's  voice  arrested  him — 
"  but  we're  ashore  somewheres,  or  close  upon  it.  I  can 
'ear  breakers " 

"Eh?" 

"Listen!" 

The  skipper  listened,  all  listened,  the  fog  the  while 
growing  steadily  more  golden  and  luminous. 

"Man,  that's  no  sound  of  breakers — it's  voices!" 

"Voices!" 

"  Voices — voices  of  singin'.  Ah ! " — the  skipper  caught 
suddenly  at  the  rail  again — "a  revelation!    Hark!" 

He  was  right.  Far  and  faint  ahead  of  the  steamer's 
bows,  where  the  fog,  meeting  the  sun's  rays,  slowly 
arched  itself  into  a  splendid  halo — a  solid  wall  no 
longer,  but  a  doorway  for  the  light,  and  hung  with 
curtains  that  momentarily  wore  thinner — there,  where 
the  water  began  to  take  a  tinge  of  flame,  sounded  the 
voices  of  men  and  women,  or  of  angels,  singing  together. 
And  while  the  crew  of  the  Evan  Evans  strained  their 
ears  the  hymn  grew  audible: 

Nearer — and  nearer  still, 

We  to  our  country  come; 
To  that  celestial  Hill, 

The  weary  pilgrim's  home!  .  .  . 

Arthur  Miles  had  clutched  Tilda's  hand.  She  her- 
self gazed  and  listened,  awe-struck.    The  sound  of  oars 

272 


THE  S.S.  EVAN  EVANS 

mingled  now  with  the  voices,  and  out  of  the  glory 
ahead  three  forms  emerged  and  took  shape — three 
boats  moving  in  solemn  procession. 

They  were  of  unusual  length,  and  black — at  any 
rate,  seen  against  that  golden  haze,  they  appeared 
black  as  Erebus.  In  the  bows  of  each  sat  a  company 
of  people  singing  as  they  pulled  at  the  long  oars;  and 
in  the  stern  of  each,  divided  from  the  rowers  by  the 
cargo — but  what  that  cargo  was  could  not  yet  be  dis- 
tinguished— stood  a  solitary  steersman. 

Patently  these  people  were  unaware  of  the  steamer's 
approach.  They  were  heading  straight  across  her  path 
— were,  in  fact,  dangerously  close — when  at  length  the 
seaman  on  the  bridge  recovered  presence  of  mind  to 
sound  her  whistle,  at  the  same  time  ringing  down  to 
stop  the  engines. 

As  the  whistle  sounded  the  singing  ceased  abruptly, 
the  steersmen  thrust  over  their  tillers  in  a  flurry,  and  of 
the  rowers  some  were  still  backing  water  as  the  boats 
drifted  close,  escaping  collision  by  a  few  yards. 

"Ahoy  there!" 

"Alloy!"  came  the  answer.    "Who  are  you?" 

"The  Evan  Evans,  of  Cardiff,"  responded  the  skip- 
per between  his  hollowed  palms. 

"Whither  bound?" 

"Cardiff." 

The  foremost  boat  was  close  now  and  drifting  along- 
side.   Arthur  Miles  and  Tilda  stared  down  upon  the 

273 


TRUE  TILDA 

faces  of  the  rowers.  They  were  eight  or  ten,  and  young 
for  the  most  part — young  men  of  healthy  brown  com- 
plexions and  maidens  in  sun  bonnets;  and  they  laughed, 
with  upturned  eyes,  as  they  fell  to  their  oars  again  to 
keep  pace  with  the  steamer's  slackening  way.  The 
children  now  discerned  what  cargo  the  boats  carried — 
each  a  score  or  two  of  sheep,  alive  and  bleating,  their 
fleeces  all  golden  in  the  strange  light. 

An  old  man  stood  in  the  stern  of  the  leading  boat. 
He  wore  a  long  white  beard,  and  his  face  was  extraor- 
dinarily gentle.    It  was  he  who  answered  the  skipper. 

"For  Cardiff?"  he  echoed. 

"Ay,  the  Evan  Evans,  of  Cardiff,  an'  thither  bound. 
Maybe  you've  heard  of  him,"  added  the  skipper  irrele- 
vantly.   "  A  well-known  Temperance  Reformer  he  was." 

The  old  steersman  shook  his  head. 

"You're  miles  away  out  o'  your  course,  then — five 
an'  twenty  miles  good." 

"Where  are  we?" 

"Right  south-west — atween  Holmness  and  the  land. 
You've  overshot  everything.  Why,  man,  are  ye  all 
mazed  aboard  ?  Never  a  vessel  comes  hereabouts,  and 
'tis  the  Lord's  mercy  you  han't  run  her  ashore." 

"The  Lord  will  provide,"  answered  the  skipper 
piously.    "  Which-a-way  lies  Cardiff,  say  you  ?" 

The  old  man  pointed.  But  while  he  pointed  Tilda 
ran  forward. 

"  'Olmness  ?    Is  it  'Olmness  ?  " 

274 


THE  S.S.  EVAN  EVANS 

He  stared  up. 

"  Holmness  it  is,  missie  ?    But  why  ?" 

"An'  you'll  take  us  off?  We're  'ere  with  a  message. 
It's  for  Miles  Chandon,  if  you  know  'im." 

"Surely,"  the  old  man  answered  slowly.  "Yes, 
surely — Sir  Miles,  But  who  can  have  a  message  for 
Sir  Miles?" 

"For  Miss  Sally,  then.     You  know  Miss  Sally  ?" 

The  old  man's  look  changed  in  a  moment. 

"Miss  Sally?  Wliy,  o'  course — do  we  know  Miss 
Sally?"  he  was  appealing  to  the  crew  of  men  and 
maidens  forward,  and  they  broke  into  a  chime  of 
laughter. 

"What's  this?"  demanded  the  skipper,  stepping 
forward.  "Here's  a  couple  of  stowaways.  I  know 
nothing  about  'em.  It's  your  risk  if  you  choose  to  take 
'em  off." 

"If  she  've  a  message  for  Miss  Sally — "  answered  the 
old  steersman  after  a  pause. 

"It's  life  an'  death!"  pleaded  Tilda. 

The  steamer,  the  upturned  faces  below,  the  fog  all 
around — she  saw  it  as  in  a  dream,  and  as  in  a  dream 
she  heard  herself  pleading.  .  .  . 

"Get  out  the  ladder,  there!"  called  the  skipper. 

They  were  in  the  boat,  still  as  in  a  dream,  sitting 
among  these  strange,  kindly  people.  In  a  dream,  too, 
she  was  waving  to  Bill,  who  had  come  up  from  below 

275 


TRUE  TILDA 

and  leant  over  the  bulwarks  staring  as  steamer  and 
boats  fell  apart  in  the  fog.  Then  at  a  word  from  the 
bridge,  he  waved  his  hand  for  the  last  time  and  ran 
below.  In  a  minute  or  so  the  Evan  Evans  began  to 
feel  around  and  edge  away  for  the  northward. 

She  faded  and  was  lost  in  the  vaporous  curtain.  Still 
the  children  gazed  astern  after  her  over  the  backs  of 
the  huddled  sheep.  The  rowers  had  fallen  to  singing 
again — men  and  maidens  in  harmony  as  they  pulled: 

The  ransomed  sons  of  God, 

All  earthly  things  we  scorn. 
And  to  our  high  abode 

With  songs  of  praise  return  I  .  .  . 

Of  a  sudden,  while  they  sang  and  while  the  children 
gazed,  the  fog  to  northward  heaved  and  parted,  pierced 
by  a  shaft  of  the  sinking  sun,  and  there  in  a  clear  hol- 
low lay  land — lay  an  Island  vignetted  in  the  fog,  with 
the  light  on  its  cliffs  and  green  slopes — an  Island,  rest- 
ing like  a  shield  on  the  milky  sea. 

"Look!" 

Arthur  Miles  clutched  Tilda  by  the  arm  and  pointed. 

The  old  steersman  turned  his  head. 

"Ay,"  said  he,  "she  looks  pretty  of  an  evening 
sometimes,  does  Holmness." 


276 


CHAPTER  XX 

INISTOW  FARM 

"Clean,  simple  livers." — Crashaw. 

The  rowers  in  the  leading  boat  were  seven — four 
young  men  and  three  young  women;  and  they  pulled 
two  to  an  oar — all  but  the  bowman,  a  young  giant  of 
eighteen  or  thereabouts,  who  did  without  help.  A 
fourth  young  woman  sat  beside,  suckling  a  baby. 
And  so,  counting  the  baby  and  the  two  children  and 
the  old  steersman,  whom  they  all  addressed  as  "  Father," 
and  omitting  'Dolph  and  tlie  sheep,  they  were  twelve 
on  board.  The  second  and  third  boats  had  half  a  dozen 
rowers  apiece.  The  second  was  steered  by  a  wizened 
middle-aged  man,  Jan  by  name.  Tilda  learned  that  he 
was  the  shepherd.  More  by  token,  he  had  his  three 
shaggy  dogs  with  him,  crowded  in  the  stern. 

At  first  these  dogs  showed  the  liveliest  interest  in 
'Dolph,  raising  themselves  with  their  fore  paws  on  the 
gunwale,  and  gazing  across  the  intervening  twenty 
yards  of  water.  But  they  were  dignified  creatures,  and 
their  self-respect  forbade  them  to  bark.  'Dolph,  who 
had  no  breeding,  challenged  back  loudly,  all  his  bristles 
erect — and  still  the  more  angrily  as  they  forbore  to  an- 

277 


TRUE  TILDA 

swer;  whereat  the  young  men  and  women  laughed. 
Their  laughter  would  have  annoyed  Tilda  had  it  been 
less  unaffected;  and,  as  it  was,  she  cuffed  the  dog  so 
sharply  that  he  ceased  with  a  whine. 

She  had  never  met  with  folk  like  these.  They  gave 
her  a  sense  of  having  reached  the  ends  of  the  earth — 
they  were  so  simple  and  strong  and  well-featured,  and 
had  eyes  so  kindly.  She  could  understand  but  a  bare 
third  of  what  they  said,  their  language  being  English 
of  a  sort,  but  neither  that  of  the  gentry— such  as  Arthur 
Miles  spoke — nor  that  of  the  gypsies;  nor,  in  short,  had 
she  heard  the  human  like  of  it  anywhere  in  her  travels. 
She  had  never  heard  tell  of  vowels  or  of  gutturals,  and 
so  could  not  note  how  the  voices,  as  they  rose  and  fell, 
fluted  upon  the  one  or  dwelt,  as  if  caressingly,  on  the 
other.  To  her  their  talk  resembled  the  talk  of  birds, 
mingled  with  liquid  laughter. 

Later,  when  she  came  to  make  acquaintance  with 
the  Scriptures,  and  read  about  the  patriarchs  and  their 
families,  she  understood  better.  Laban  with  his  flock, 
Rebekah  and  her  maidens,  the  shepherds  of  Bethlehem 
— for  all  of  them  her  mind  cast  back  to  these  innocent 
people,  met  so  strangely  off  an  unknown  coast. 

For  she  had  come  by  water;  and  never  having  trav- 
elled by  ship  before,  and  being  wholly  ignorant  of  geog- 
raphy and  distances,  she  did  not  dream  that  the  coast 
toward  which  they  were  rowing  her  could  be  any  part 
of  England. 

278 


INISTOW  FARM 

It  loomed  close  ahead  now — a  bold  line  of  clifF,  red- 
dish brown  in  colour,  but  with  patches  of  green  vivid  in 
the  luminous  haze;  the  summit  of  the  cliff  line  hidden 
everywhere  in  folds  of  fog;  the  dove-coloured  sea  run- 
ning tranquilly  at  its  base,  with  here  and  there  the  thin- 
nest edge  of  white,  that  shone  out  for  a  moment  and  faded. 

But  now  the  cliffs,  which  had  hitherto  appeared  to 
run  with  one  continuous  face  like  a  wall,  began  to 
break  up  and  reveal  gullies  and  fissures;  and  as  these 
unfolded,  by  and  by  a  line  of  white  cottages  crept  into 
view.  They  overhung  a  cove  more  deeply  indented  than 
the  rest,  and  close  under  them  was  a  diminutive  gray 
pier  sheltering  a  diminutive  harbour  and  beach. 

And  now  the  voyage  was  soon  ended.  The  boat 
shot  around  the  pier  end  and  took  ground  upon  firm 
shingle.  The  others,  close  in  her  wake,  ran  in  and  were 
beached  alongside,  planks  were  laid  out  from  the  gun- 
wales, and  in  half  a  minute  all  hands  had  fallen  to  work, 
urging,  persuading,  pushing,  lifting  the  sheep  ashore,  or 
rounding  them  up  on  the  beach,  where  they  headed  hith- 
er and  thither,  or  stood  obstinately  still  in  mazed  fash- 
ion, all  bleating.  The  middle-aged  shepherd  took  com- 
mand of  these  operations,  no  man  gainsaying,  and  shout- 
ed here,  there,  and  everywhere,  sparing  neither  age  nor 
sex,  but  scolding  all  indiscriminately,  hallooing  to  his 
dogs  and  waving  his  arms — as  his  master  described  it 
later — "like  a  paper  man  in  a  cyclone."  And  the  dogs 
were  silent  no  longer,  but  coursed  the  beach  with  short, 

279 


TRUE  TILDA 

fierce  yelps,  yet  always  intent  on  their  business,  as 
'Dolph  discovered  when,  spurred  on  by  his  theatrical 
instincts,  he  made  a  feint  of  joining  in  the  sport.  A  snap 
of  teeth  close  to  his  fore  legs  sent  him  back  yelping, 
and  he  retired  in  dudgeon  to  a  heap  of  seaweed ;  but  by 
and  by,  when  the  sheep  were  gathered  into  a  compact 
crowd,  he  made  a  really  heroic  effort  to  divert  attention 
back  to  his  own  talents. 

"Look  to  the  dog,  there — ^look  to  'en!"  cried  a 
maiden  of  eighteen,  pointing  and  then  resting  a  hand 
on  either  hip  while  she  laughed. 

This  was  Chrissy  (short  for  Christiana),  the  prettiest, 
though  not  the  youngest  of  the  girls.  Beside  her  there 
were  Dinah  (it  was  she  who  suckled  the  baby)  and 
Polly  and  Rose  and  Sabina  and  Charity;  and  of  the 
young  men  John  Edward  and  William,  'Rastus,  Dona- 
tus,  and  Obed.  These  were  of  the  sons  and  daughters 
of  the  old  steersman,  with  others  of  whom  Tilda  had 
not  yet  learnt  the  names.  There  was  Old  William  also 
— Dinah's  husband — a  young  man  of  thirty  or  so,  but 
serious  for  his  years;  and  Old  William's  two  sisters, 
Sheba  and  Bathsheba — the  younger  a  maiden,  but  the 
elder  married  to  a  youth  they  called  Daniel;  and  Fes- 
tus,  who  appeared  to  be  courting  Chrissy;  and  Roger, 
the  young  giant  who  had  pulled  the  bow  oar,  and  was 
courting  nobody  as  yet.  Quick  though  Tilda  was  to 
find  her  feet  in  a  crowd  and  distinguish  names  and 
faces,  she  found  the  numbers  bewildering.    To  Arthur 

280 


INISTOW  FARM 

Miles  they  were  but  a  phantom  throng.  He  stood  on 
the  beach  amid  the  small  tumult  and,  while  the  sheep 
blundered  by,  gazed  back  upon  the  Island,  still  in  view, 
still  resting  like  a  shield  out  yonder  upon  the  milky, 
golden  sea. 

As  yet  Tilda  could  not  know  that  the  old  man  had 
been  married  twice,  that  these  stalwart  youths  and 
maidens  were  his  offspring  by  two  mothers.  Indeed, 
they  might  all  have  been  his,  and  of  one  womb,  so 
frankly  and  so  gently  spoken  they  were  one  to  another. 
Only  the  shepherd  kept  scolding  all  the  while,  and  with 
vigour,  using  his  brief  authority  which  no  one — not  even 
his  master — attempted  to  dispute.  While  this  was  go- 
ing on  two  farm  boys  from  the  rearmost  boat  had  run 
up  the  hill,  and  by  and  by  returned,  each  cracking  a 
whip  and  leading  a  pair  of  horses  harnessed  to  a  lum- 
bering hay  waggon.  All  scrambled  on  board,  romping 
and  calling  to  Tilda  and  Arthur  Miles  to  follow  their 
example;  and  so,  leaving  the  shepherd  to  follow  with  his 
collected  flock,  the  procession  started,  the  horses  plung- 
ing at  the  first  steep  rise  from  the  beach. 

Half-a-dozen  children  had  collected  on  the  beach 
and  ran  with  them,  cheering,  up  the  hill,  and  before  the 
cottage  doorways  three  or  four  women,  wives  and  wid- 
ows, stood  to  watch  the  procession  go  by.  These  (some 
one  told  Tilda)  were  all  the  inhabitants  left,  their  men 
folk  having  sailed  away  west  and  north  a  month  ago 
for  the  fishery. 

281 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Wish  'ee  well,  Farmer  Tossell!"  cried  one  or  two. 
"Sheep  all  right,  I  hope?" 

"Right  as  the  bank,  my  dears!"  called  back  the  old 
patriarch,  waving  a  whip  he  had  caught  from  one  of 
the  farm  boys.     "The  same  to  you,  an'  many  of  'em!" 

They  mounted  the  hill  at  a  run,  and  when  the  horses 
dropped  to  a  walk  Farmer  Tossell  explained  to  Arthur 
Miles,  who  had  been  thrust  forward  into  a  seat — or 
rather  perch — beside  him,  that  this  bringing  home  of 
the  sheep  from  Holmness  was  a  great  annual  event,  and 
that  he  was  lucky,  in  a  way,  to  have  dropped  in  for  it. 

"The  whole  family  turns  out — all  but  the  Old 
Woman  an'  Dorcas.  Dorcas  is  my  eldest.  They're 
t'  home  gettin'  the  supper.  A  brave  supper  you'll  see, 
an'  the  preacher  along  with  it.  I  dunno  if  you're  saved. 
.  .  .  No  ?  P'r'aps  not,  at  your  age.  I  was  never  one 
for  hurryin'  the  children;  bruisin'  the  tender  flax,  as 
you  might  say.  .  .  .  But  you  mustn't  be  upset  if  he 
alloods  to  you.  ...  A  very  powerful  man,  when  you're 
used  to  'en.  So  you've  a  message  for  Miss  Sally? 
Know  her  ?  " 

The  boy  had  to  confess  that  he  did  not. 

"Curious!"  the  farmer  commented.  "She's  one  of 
the  old  sort,  is  Miss  Sally.  But  you  can't  get  over  to 
Culvercoombe  to-night:  to-morrow  we'll  see.  .'.  . 
What's  your  name,  by  the  way?" 

"Arthur  Miles." 

"And  your  sister's?" 

282 


INISTOW  FARM 

"She's  called  Tilda;  but  she — she  isn't  really " 

Farmer  Tossell  was  not  listening. 

"You'll  have  to  sleep  with  us  to-night.  Oh,"  he  went 
on,  misinterpreting  the  boy's  glance  behind  him  (he 
was  really  seeking  for  Tilda,  to  explain),  "there's  al- 
ways room  for  one  or  two  more  at  Inistow:  that's 
what  you  might  call  our  motto;  and  the  Old  Woman 
dotes  on  children.  She  ought  to — havin'  six  of  her  own, 
besides  nine  of  my  first  family." 

The  waggon  had  reached  a  short  break  in  the  ascent 
— ^you  might  liken  it  to  a  staircase  landing — where  the 
road  ran  level  for  about  fifty  yards  before  taking  breath, 
so  to  speak,  for  another  stiff  climb.  Here  a  by-road  led 
off  to  the  right,  and  here  they  turned  aside. 

The  road  ran  parallel,  or  roughly  parallel,  with  the 
line  of  the  cliffs,  between  low  and  wind-trimmed 
hedges,  over  which,  from  his  perch  beside  Farmer 
Tossell,  the  boy  looked  down  across  a  narrow  slope  of 
pasture  to  the  sea.  The  fog  had  lifted.  Away  and  a 
little  above  the  horizon  the  sun  was  dropping  like  a  ball 
of  orange  flame  in  a  haze  of  gold;  and  nearer,  to  the 
right  of  the  sunset,  lay  the  Island  as  if  asleep  on  the 
waves,  with  glints  of  fire  on  the  pointed  cliffs  at  its 
western  end,  and  all  the  rest  a  lilac  shadow  resting  on 
the  luminous  water. 

He  gazed,  and  still  gazed.  He  heard  no  longer, 
though  the  farmer  was  speaking.  There  was  indeed 
some  excuse,  for  the  young  men  and  girls  had  started 

283 


TRUE  TILDA 

another  hymn,  and  were  singing  with  all  their  voices. 
But  he  did  not  even  listen. 

The  road  rose  and  dipped.  .  .  .  They  came  to  a 
white-painted  gate,  which  one  of  the  young  men  sprang 
down  to  open.  The  last  glow  of  the  sunset  fell  on  its 
bars,  and  their  outline  repeated  itself  in  dazzling  streaks 
on  the  sky  as  the  horses  wheeled  to  the  left  through  the 
gateway,  and  the  boy  turned  for  a  last  look.  But  Holm- 
ness  had  disappeared.  A  brown  ridge  of  stubble  hid  it, 
edged  and  powdered  with  golden  light. 

Turning  from  the  sea,  the  waggons  followed  a  rutted 
cart  track  that  wound  downhill  in  a  slow  arc  between 
an  orchard  hedge  and  an  open  meadow  dotted  with 
cattle.  High  beyond  the  orchard  rose  a  cluster  of  elms, 
around  which  many  rooks  were  cawing,  and  between 
the  elms  a  blue  smoke  drifted.  There,  too,  the  gray 
roof  of  the  farmhouse  crept  little  by  little  into  sight; 
and  so  they  came  to  a  second  gate  and  the  rick-yard; 
and  beyond  the  ricks  was  a  whitewashed  doorway, 
where  a  smiling  elderly  woman  stood  to  welcome  them. 
This  was  Mrs.  Tossell,  forewarned  many  minutes  since 
by  their  singing. 

She  had  come  straight  from  preparing  the  feast,  and 
her  face  was  yet  flushed  with  the  heat  of  the  kitchen  fire. 
The  arrival  of  the  extra  mouths  to  be  fed  did  not  put 
her  out  in  the  least.  But  she  looked  the  children  over 
with  eyes  at  once  benevolent  and  critical — their  clothes 
and  their  faces— and  said  frankly  that  they  wanted  a 

284 


INISTOW  FARM 

wash,  which  was  only  too  evident,  the  Evan  Evans 
being  a  pecuUarly  grimy  boat,  even  for  a  coUier. 

"The  sooner  the  better,"  agreed  Tilda  with  the 
utmost  alacrity. 

"Well,  and  I'm  glad  you  take  it  like  that,"  said 
their  hostess,  nodding  approval.  She  called  "Hepsy! 
Hepsy!"  and  an  elderly  serving-woman  answered  the 
summons.  "Run,  Hepsy,  and  fill  the  wash-house 
boiler,"  she  commanded. 

Within  twenty  minutes  two  long  wash  trays  stood 
ready  and  steaming — one  for  Tilda  in  the  wash 
kitchen  itself,  the  other  for  Arthur  Miles  in  a  small 
outhouse  adjoining;  and  while  the  children  revelled  in 
this  strange  new  luxury,  Mrs.  Tossell  bethought  her  of 
certain  garments  in  a  press  up-stairs — a  frock  and  some 
underclothing  long  since  outgrown  by  Sabina,  a  thread- 
worn  shirt  and  a  suit  that  had  formerly  habited  Obed, 
her  youngest,  all  preserved  and  laid  away  on  the  prin- 
ciple (as  she  put  it)  that  "Store  is  no  Sore." 

It  was  Chrissy,  the  pretty  girl,  who  carried  his  clean 
garments  to  Arthur  Miles;  and  he,  being  caught  naked 
in  the  wash-tub,  blushed  furiously.  But  Chrissy  was 
used  to  brothers,  and  took  stock  of  him  composedly. 

"My!"  she  exclaimed,  "what  pretty  white  skin 
you've  got!"  And  with  that  her  quick  eyes  noted  the 
mark  on  his  shoulder.  "Well,  I  never — but  that's 
funny!" 

"What's  funny?"  asked  the  boy. 

285 


TRUE  TILDA 

"I'll  tell  you  later  in  the  kitchen,"  she  promised,  and 
went  off  to  Tilda. 

The  kitchen  was  of  noble  size — far  larger  even  than 
the  refectory  at  Holy  Innocents'  Orphanage — and 
worthy  of  the  feast  Mrs.  Tossell  had  arrayed  there  to 
celebrate  the  sheep  bringing.  The  table,  laden  with 
hot  pies,  with  dishes  of  fried  rasher  and  hog's  pud- 
dings, black-puddings,  sausages,  with  cold  ham  and 
cold  ribs  of  beef,  with  apple  tarts,  junkets,  jellies,  syl- 
labubs, frumenties,  with  mighty  teapots  and  flagons  of 
cider,  ran  close  alongside  the  window  seat  where  the 
children  were  given  their  places,  and  whence,  turning 
their  heads,  they  looked  out  upon  a  garden  set  with 
clipped  box  trees,  and  bordered  with  Michaelmas 
daisies,  and  upon  a  tall  dove-cote  of  many  holes  and 
ledges  crowded  with  pigeons  settling  down  to  their 
night's  rest.  On  the  outside  of  the  table  ran  an  un- 
backed bench,  and  at  top  and  bottom  stood  two  ample 
elbowed  chairs  for  the  farmer  and  his  wife;  but  Mrs. 
Tossell  had  surrendered  hers  to  a  black-coated  man 
whom  all  addressed  as  "Minister,"  though  in  talk 
among  themselves  they  spoke  of  him  rather  as  The 
Rounder.  Before  the  company  sat  he  delivered  a  long 
grace  with  much  unction.  Tilda — a  child  of  the  world, 
and  accustomed  to  take  folks  as  she  found  them — eyed 
him  with  frank  curiosity;  but  in  Arthur  INIiles  his  black 
coat  and  white  tie  awoke  a  painful  association  of  ideas, 

286 


INISTOW  FARM 

and  for  a  while  the  child  sat  nervous  and  gloomy,  with- 
out appetite  to  eat.  .  .  .  Tilda  for  once  was  unobservant 
of  him.  The  Minister,  with  his  long,  thin  neck,  strag- 
gling black  beard,  weak,  eloquent  mouth,  and  black, 
shining  eyes — the  eyes  of  a  bom  visionary — failed,  as 
well  they  might,  to  suggest  a  thought  of  Dr.  Glasson. 
She  was  hungry,  too,  and  her  small  body  glowing  deli- 
ciously  within  her  clean  garments.  Amid  all  this  clatter 
of  knives  and  forks,  these  laughing  voices,  these  cheer- 
ful, innocent  faces,  who  could  help  casting  away  care  ? 

Now  and  again  her  eyes  wandered  around  the  great 
kitchen — up  to  the  oaken  roof,  almost  black  with  age, 
and  the  hams,  sides  of  bacon,  bundles  of  pot-herbs,  bags 
of  simples,  dangling  from  its  beams;  across  to  the  old 
jack  that  stretched  athwart  the  wall  to  the  left  of  the 
fireplace — a  curious  apparatus,  in  old  times  (as  Chrissy 
explained  to  her)  turned  by  a  dog,  but  now  disused  and 
kept  only  as  a  relic;  to  the  tall  settle  on  the  right  with  the 
bars  beneath  the  seat,  and  behind  the  bars  (so  Chrissy 
averred)  a  couple  of  live  geese  imprisoned,  and  quietly 
sitting  on  their  eggs  amid  all  this  uproar;  to  the  great  cave 
of  the  fireplace  itself,  hung  with  pot-hooks  and  toothed 
cramps,  where  a  fire  of  logs  burned  on  a  hearthstone 
so  wide  that  actually — yes,  actually — deep  in  its  recess, 
and  behind  the  fire,  were  set  two  smoke-blackened  seats, 
one  in  each  farther  angle  under  the  open  chimney. 

Before  the  feast  had  been  twenty  minutes  in  progress 
the  farmer  looked  up  and  along  the  table  and  called  for 

287 


TRUE  TILDA 

lights.  His  eyes,  he  explained,  were  not  so  young  as 
they  had  been.  Roger — tallest  of  the  young  men — 
jumped  up  and  lit  two  oil  lamps  that  hung  from  the 
beams.  The  lamps  had  immense  reflectors  above 
them,  made  of  tin;  but  they  shone  like  silver,  and 
Tilda  took  them  for  silver. 

"That's  cheerfuller!"  shouted  Farmer  Tossell  with 
a  laugh  of  great  contentment,  and  fell  to  again. 

But  as  the  light  wavered  and  anon  grew  steady, 
Chrissy  leaned  over  Tilda,  touched  Arthur  Miles  on 
the  shoulder,  and  pointed  to  the  wall  opposite.  Tilda 
stared  also,  following  the  direction  of  her  finger. 

The  lamplight,  playing  on  the  broad  chimneypiece 
with  its  brass  candlesticks  and  china  ornaments, 
reached  for  a  yard  or  so  up  the  wall,  and  then  was  cut 
off  by  the  shadow  of  the  reflectors.  But  in  that  illumi- 
nated space,  fronting  the  children,  stood  out  a  panel  of 
plaster,  overlaid  with  a  coat  of  drab-coloured  paint, 
but  moulded  in  high  relief.  The  moulding  was  of 
a  coat  of  arms — a  shield  surrounded  by  a  foliated 
pattern,  and  crossed  with  this  device: 


oooo 


.  .  .  This  with  two  antlered  stags,  collared,  with  hang- 
ing chains  for  supporters;    above  it,  a  cap-of-mainte- 

288 


INISTOW  FARM 

nance  and  a  stag's  head  coup^  for  crest;  and  beneath, 
a  scroll  bearing  some  words  which  Tilda  could  not  de- 
cipher. She  glanced  at  Chrissy,  alert  at  once  and  on 
the  defensive.  She  had  recognised  the  four  diamonds, 
but  all  the  rest  was  a  mere  mystery  to  her. 

"He's  got  just  that  mark  on  his  shoulder,"  said 
Chrissy,  meeting  her  gaze  and  nodding  toward  the 
shield. 

"Has  he?"  said  Tilda  disingenuously. 

But  she  was  jealous  already,  and  by  habit  distrustful 
of  her  sex. 

"Didn't  you  know?  I  noticed  it,  just  now,  when  he 
was  stripped.  And  I  thought  for  a  moment  .  .  .  you 
two  coming  and  asking  for  Sir  Miles.  .  .  .  But  I'm 
always  supposing  some  secret  or  other.  Mother  says  it 
comes  of  muzzing  my  head  with  books,  and  then  put- 
ting two  and  two  together  and  making  'em  five.  .  .  . 
It's  fanciful,  of  course" — here  Chrissy  sighed — "things 
don't  happen  like  that  in  real  life.  .  .  .  But  there's 
always  been  stories  about  Sir  Miles;  and  when  I  saw 
the  mark — it  is  queer,  now " 

But  Tilda  kept  a  steady  face,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
escutcheon. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  asked.  "I  don't  know 
about  these  things." 

"Why,  it's  Sir  Miles's  coat  of  arms;  of  the  Chan- 
dons,  that  is.  Inistow  Farm  used  to  belong  to  them — 
belonged  to  them  for  hundreds  of  years,  right  down  to 

289 


TRUE  TILDA 

the  time  Miss  Sally  bought  it.  Father  farmed  it  under 
them  for  thirty  years  before  that,  and  his  father,  and 
his  grandfather,  and  his  great-greats — back  ever  so 
long.  He  was  terribly  put  out  when  it  changed  hands; 
but  now  he  says,  'Thank  the  Lord,'  when  he  talks 
of  it." 

"Changed  hands?"  Tilda  found  herself  echoing. 

"Yes.  Inistow  has  belonged  to  Miss  Sally  these 
five  years  now.  I  thought  may  be  you'd  be  knowing 
all  about  her  and  Sir  Miles — coming  like  this  and 
inquiring  for  them.  She's  a  good  one,  is  Miss  Sally; 
but  when  a  woman  sees  a  man  poor — well,  of  course, 
that's  her  revenge." 

"Is— is  Sir  Miles  poor.?" 

Tilda's  hopes  were  tottering,  falling  about  her,  she 
hardly  knew  how  or  why.  Vaguely  she  had  been 
building  up  a  fabric  of  hope  that  she  was  helping 
Arthur  Miles  home  to  a  splendid  inheritance.  Such 
things  happened,  almost  as  a  matter  of  course,  in  the 
penny  fiction  to  which  her  reading  had  been  exclusively 
confined.  To  be  sure,  they  never  happened — they  were 
wildly  unlikely  to  happen — in  the  world  of  her  own  lim- 
ited experience.  But  in  the  society  to  which  the  boy 
belonged  by  his  gentle  manners  and  his  trick  of  speech, 
which  could  only  come  as  a  birthright — in  that  rarefied 
world  where  the  ladies  wore  low  gowns,  with  diamonds 
around  their  necks,  and  the  gentlemen  dined  in  fine 
linen  with  wide  shirt-fronts — all  life  moved  upon  the 

290 


INISTOW  FARM 

machinery  of  romance.  The  books  said  so;  and  after 
that  romance  she  had  been  pursuing,  by  degrees  more 
consciously,  from  fugitive  hints  almost  to  certainty  that 
a  few  hours  would  give  it  into  her  grasp.    And  now 

"Is — is  he  poor?"  she  repeated. 

She  could  not  understand  it.  The  story-books 
always  conducted  the  long-lost  heir  to  rank  and  wealth 
in  the  end. 

"Well,  he  don't  spend  money,  they  say,"  answered 
Chrissy.  "  But  nobody  knows  for  certain.  His  tenants 
never  see  him.  He's  always  abroad;  he's  abroad 
now " 

"Abroad?" 

This  was  worse  and  worse. 

"Or  else  shut  up  at  Meriton — that's  the  great  house 
— with  a  lot  of  nasty  chemicals,  trying  to  turn  copper 
pennies  into  gold,  they  say." 

Tilda  caught  at  this  hope. 

"P'r'aps  'e'll  manage  it,  one  of  these  days." 

"That's  silly.  Folks  have  been  trying  it  for  hundreds 
of  years,  and  it  '11  never  be  done." 

"And  'Olmness?  'As  Miss  Sally  bought  'Olmness, 
too?" 

"No;  he  wouldn't  part  with  it,  for  some  reason. 
But  father  rents  the  grazing  from  him;  same  as  before, 
when  th'  island  belonged  to  Inistow  Farm.  There's 
a  tale " 


But  Tilda  was  not  to  hear  the  tale,  for  just  now  Mrs. 

291 


TRUE  TILDA 

Tossell  pushed  back  her  chair,  and  at  her  signal  the 
feast  ended.  All  left  the  table  and  exchanged  their 
benches  for  the  settle  or  for  chairs  which  they  drew  in 
a  wide  semicircle  around  the  fireplace.  Across  the 
warm  chord  of  this  semicircle  the  sheep-dogs,  stretched 
before  the  blaze,  looked  up  lazily,  and  settled  -them- 
selves to  doze  again.  'Dolph,  lying  a  little  apart  (for 
they  declined  to  take  notice  of  him),  copied  their  move- 
ments in  an  ingratiating  but  not  very  successful  attempt 
to  appear  bred  to  the  manner. 

Tilda  remarked  that  the  company  took  their  new 
positions  with  some  formality.  The  shepherd  alone 
comported  himself  carelessly,  slouching  around  to  the 
back  of  the  fire,  where  he  lit  a  clay  pipe  from  the  embers 
and  seated  himself  on  one  of  the  ingle  ends,  so  that  his 
tobacco  smoke  had  a  clear  passage  up  the  chimney. 
Then,  almost  before  the  children  knew  what  was  hap- 
pening, the  Minister  gave  out  a  hymn. 

All  sang  it  lustily,  and  when  it  was  ended  all  dropped 
on  their  knees.  The  Minister  broke  into  prayer — at 
first  in  smooth,  running  sentences,  formal  thanksgiv- 
ings for  the  feast  just  concluded,  for  the  plenty  of  seed- 
time and  harvest,  for  the  kindly  fruits  of  the  earth,  with 
invocations  of  blessing  upon  the  house  and  the  family. 
But  by  and  by,  as  these  petitions  grew  more  intimate, 
his  breath  came  in  short  gasps.  "O  the  Blood!"  he 
began  to  cry;  "the  precious  Blood  of  Redemption!" 
And  at  intervals  one  or  other  of  his  listeners  answered 

292 


INISTOW  FARM 

"Amen!"  "Hallelujah!"  Tilda  wondered  what  on 
earth  it  was  all  about;  wondered,  too — for  she  knelt 
with  her  back  to  the  great  fireplace — if  the  shepherd 
had  laid  by  his  pipe  and  was  kneeling  among  the  ashes. 
Something  in  the  Minister's  voice  had  set  her  brain  in 
a  whirl,  and  kept  it  whirling. 

"Glory!  glory!  The  Blood!  Glory  be  for  the 
Blood!" 

And  with  that,  of  a  sudden  the  man  was  shouting 
a  prayer  for  her — for  her  and  Arthur  Miles,  "that  these 
two  lambs  also  might  be  led  home  with  the  flock,  and 
sealed — sealed  with  the  Blood,  with  the  precious  Blood, 
with  the  ever-flowing  Blood  of  Redemption " 

Her  brain  seemed  to  be  spinning  in  a  sea  of  blood. 
.  .  .  Men  and  women,  all  had  risen  from  their  knees 
now,  and  stood  blinking  each  in  the  other's  faces  half 
stupidly.  The  Minister's  powerful  voice  had  ceased, 
but  he  had  set  them  going  as  a  man  might  twirl  a  tee- 
totum; and  in  five  or  six  seconds  one  of  the  men — it 
was  Roger,  the  young  giant — burst  forth  with  a  cry, 
and  began  to  ejaculate  what  he  called  his  "experience." 
He  had  been  tempted  to  commit  the  Sin  without  Par- 
don; had  been  pursued  by  it  for  weeks,  months,  when 
alone  in  the  fields;  had  been  driven  to  wrestle  with  it  in 
hollows  and  waste  places,  Satan  always  at  his  ear  whis- 
pering to  him  to  say  the  words  of  blasphemy,  to  cross 
the  line,  to  have  rest  of  mind  though  it  were  in  damna- 
tion.   To  Tilda  this  was  all  mere  gibberish,  but  to  the 

293 


TRUE  TILDA 

youth  and  to  his  hearers  all  real  and  deadly  earnest. 
His  words  came  painfully,  from  a  dry  throat;  the  effort 
twisted  him  in  bodily  contortions  pitiful  to  see;  the 
sweat  stood  on  his  handsome  young  forehead — the  brow 
of  a  tortured  Apollo.  And  the  circle  of  listeners  bent 
forward  to  the  tale,  eager,  absorbed,  helping  out  his 
agony  with  groans  and  horrified  murmurs.  They  held 
their  breath,  and  when  he  reached  the  crisis,  and  in  a 
gush  of  words  related  his  deliverance — casting  up  both 
arms  and  drawing  one  long,  shuddering  breath — they 
could  almost  see  the  bonds  burst  on  the  muscles  of 
his  magnificent  chest,  and  broke  afresh  into  exultant 
cries:  "Glory!"  "Hallelujah!"  "The  Blood— the 
Blood!"  while  the  shepherd  in  the  ingle  nook  slowly 
knocked  out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe  against  the  heel  of  his 
boot.  He  was  a  free-thinker,  an  ex-Chartist,  and  held 
himself  aloof  from  these  emotions,  though  privileged, 
as  an  old  retainer,  to  watch  them.  His  face  was  im- 
passive as  a  carved  idol's. 

The  young  giant  dropped  back  into  his  chair,  and 
doubtless  a  second  spiritual  gust  was  preparing  to  shake 
the  company — you  could  feel  it  in  the  air — when  Go- 
dolphus  intervened.  That  absurd  animal,  abashed  by 
a  series  of  snubbings,  probably  saw  a  chance  to  rehabili- 
tate himself.  For  certain  during  the  last  few  minutes  he 
had  been  growing  excited,  sitting  up  with  bright  eyes, 
and  opening  and  shutting  his  mouth  as  in  a  dumb  effort 
at  barkina.    Now.  to  the  amazement  of  all,  including  the 

294 


INISTOW  FARM 

sheep-dogs,  he  Ufted  himself  upon  his  hind  legs  and  be- 
gan to  gyrate  slowly. 

Every  one  stared.  In  the  tension  nobody  yet  laughed, 
although  Tilda,  throwing  a  glance  toward  the  chimney 
corner,  saw  the  shepherd's  jaw  relax  in  a  grin.  Her 
head  yet  swam.  She  felt  a  spell  upon  her  that  must  be 
broken  now  or  never. 

'"Dolph!"  she  called,  and  wondered  at  the  shrill 
sound  of  her  own  voice.  "  'Dolph!"  She  was  standing 
erect,  crooking  her  arm.  The  dog  dropped  on  his  fore 
paws,  crouched,  and  sprang  through  the  hoop  she  made 
for  him;  crouched,  sprang  back  again,  alighted,  and 
broke  into  a  psean  of  triumphant  yelps. 

Tilda  was  desperate  now.  With  a  happy  inspiration 
she  waved  her  hand  to  the  ancient  jack  against  the 
wall,  and  'Dolph  sprang  for  it,  though  he  understood 
the  command  only.  But  he  was  a  heavy  dog,  and  as 
the  rusty  machine  began  to  revolve  under  his  weight, 
his  wits  jumped  to  the  meaning  of  it,  and  he  began  to 
run  like  a  turnspit  demented. 

"Faster!   'Dolph!" 

The  Minister  had  arisen,  half  scandalised,  on  the 
point  of  calling  for  silence;  but  his  eyes  fell  on  Tilda, 
and  he,  too,  dropped  back  into  his  chair.  The  child 
had  raised  both  arms,  and  was  bending  her  body  back 
— back — until  her  fingers  touched  the  hem  of  her  skirt 
behind  her.  Her  throat  even  sank  out  of  view  behind 
her  childish  bust.     The  shepherd's  pipe  dropped  and 

295 


TRUE  TILDA 

was  smashed  on  the  hearthstone.  There  was  a  silence, 
while  still  Godolphus  continued  to  rotate.  Some  one 
broke  it,  suddenly  gasping  "Hallelujah!" 

"  Amen !    'Tis  working — 'tis  working ! " 

In  despite  of  the  Minister,  voice  after  voice  took  up 
the  clamour,  Farmer  Tossell's  louder  than  any.  And 
in  the  height  of  the  fervour  Tilda  bent  her  head  yet 
lower,  twisted  her  neck  sideways,  and  stared  up  at  the 
ring  of  faces  from  between  her  ankles! 


296 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  HUNTED   STAG 

"  Three  hundred  gentlemen,  able  to  ride, 

Three  hundred  horses  as  gallant  and  free, 
Beheld  him  escape  on  the  evening  tide 

Far  out  till  he  sank  in  the  Severn  Sea  .  .  . 
The  stag,  the  runnable  stag." — John  Davidson. 

Early  next  morning  the  two  children  awoke  in  clean 
beds  that  smelt  deliciously  of  lavender.  The  feeling 
was  so  new  to  them  and  so  pleasant,  that  for  a  while 
they  lay  in  luxurious  ease,  gazing  out  upon  so  much  of 
the  world  as  could  be  seen  beyond  the  window — a 
green  hillside  scattered  with  gorse-bushes,  sheeted  with 
yellowing  brake-fern,  and  crossed  by  drifting  veils  of 
mist:  all  golden  in  the  young  sunshine,  and  all  framed 
in  a  tangle  of  white-flowered  solanum  that  clambered 
around  the  open  casement.  Arthur  Miles  lay  and 
drank  in  the  mere  beauty  of  it.  How  should  he  not  ? 
Back  at  the  Orphanage,  life — such  as  it  was — and  the 
day's  routine  had  always  taken  care  of  themselves;  he 
had  accepted,  suffered  them,  since  to  change  them  at 
all  lay  out  of  his  power.  But  Tilda,  after  a  minute,  sat 
upright  in  her  bed,  with  knees  drawn  up  beneath  the 
bedclothes  and  hands  clasped  over  them. 

297 


TRUE  TILDA 

"This  is  a  good  place,"  she  announced,  and  paused. 
"An'  decent  people,  though  rummy."  Then,  as  the 
boy  did  not  answer,  "The  best  thing  we  can  do  is  stay 
'ere,  if  they'll  let  us." 

"Stay  here?"  he  echoed.  There  was  surprise  in  the 
echo  and  dismay.    "  But  why  should  we  stay  here  ?" 

"W'y  not?" 

She  had  yet  to  break  it  to  him  that  Sir  Miles  Chan- 
don  was  abroad,  and  would  (so  Miss  Chrissy  had  told 
her)  almost  certainly  remain  abroad  for  months  to 
come.    She  must  soften  the  blow. 

"W'y  not?"  she  repeated.    "They're  kind  'ere.    If 
they'll  keep  us  we  can  look  about  an'  make  inquiries." 

"But  we  must  get  to  the  Island." 

"The  Island  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  dessay  we'll  get  there  some 
time  or  another.  What  're  you  doin'?"  she  asked,  for 
he  had  leapt  out  of  bed  and  run  to  the  window. 

"Looking  for  it." 

But  the  Island  was  not  visible.  This  gable  of  the 
house  fronted  a  steep  coomb,  which  doubdess  wound 
its  way  to  the  sea,  since  far  to  the  right  a  patch  of  sea 
shone  beyond  a  notch  in  the  enfolding  slopes. 

"It  '11  stay  there,  don't  you  fret,"  Tilda  promised. 
"Wish  I  could  be  as  sure  that  we'd  stay  'ere:  though, 
far  as  I  can  see,  we're  safe  enough  for  a  few  days.  The 
old  lady's  puzzled  about  me.  I  reckon  she  don't  attend 
circuses — nor  the  Minister  neither — an'  that  Child- 
Acrobat  turn  fairly  fetched  'em.    They  set  it  down  to 

298 


THE  HUNTED  STAG 

the  'fees  of  grace.  I  'eard  them  talkin'  it  over,  an'  that 
was  'ow  the  Minister  put  it — whatever  'e  meant." 

"Well,  but  wasn't  it?" 

Arthur  Miles  had  come  back  from  the  window,  and 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  in  a  nightshirt  many  sizes 
too  large  for  him. 

"Wasn't  it  wot?'' 

"Hadn't — hadn't  it  anything  to  do  with  the  praying  ?" 

"Garn!"  Tilda  chuckled.  "But  I'm  glad  it  took 
you  in  too.  The  foolishness  was  my  overdoin'  it  with 
'Dolph.  Dogs  don't  'ave  any  religion,  it  seems;  and  it 
rattled  'em  a  bit,  'is  be'avin'  like  a  person  that  'ad  just 
found  salvation.  The  Minister  talked  some  science 
about  it  to  Mother  Tossell — said  as  'ow  dogs  'adn't  no 
souls  but  a  'eap  of  sympathy;  and  it  ended  by  'er  'avin, 
a  good  cry  over  me  when  she  tucked  me  up  for  the 
night,  an'  sayin'  as  after  all  I  might  be  a  brand  plucked 
from  the  burnin'.  But  it  didn'  take  in  Miss  Chrissy,  as 
I  could  tell  from  the  look  in  'er  eyes." 

Whatever  Miss  Chrissy's  doubts  may  have  been, 
she  chose  a  curious  and  perhaps  a  subtle  method  of 
expressing  them.  After  breakfast  she  took  Tilda  to 
her  room,  and  showed  her  a  small  volume  with  a  cloth 
binding,  printed  over  with  blue  forget-me-nots  and  a 
gilt  tide,  The  Lady's  Vade-Mecum,  or  How  to  Shine  in 
Society.  It  put  forth  a  preface  in  which  a  lady,  who 
signed  herself  "One  of  the  Upper  Ten  Thousand,"  but 

299 


TRUE  TILDA 

gave  no  further  clew  to  her  identity,  undertook  (as  she 
put  it)  "to  steer  the  aspirant  through  the  shoals  and 
cross-currents  which  beset  novitiate  in  the  haui-ton;' 
and  Miss  Chrissy  displayed  the  manual  shyly,  ex- 
plaining that  she  had  bought  it  in  Taunton,  and  in  a 
foolish  moment.  "It  flies  too  high  for  me.  It  says' 
under  *  Cards,'  that  no  lady  who  respects  herself  would 
talk  about  the  'Jack  of  Spad-es';  but  when  I  played 
Fives  and  Sevens  at  the  last  harvest  supper  but  one,  and 
started  to  call  him  a  Knave,  they  all  made  fun  of  me  till 
I  gave  it  up."  She  opined,  nevertheless,  that  Tilda 
would  find  some  good  reading  in  it  here  and  there;  and 
Tilda,  sharp  as  a  needle,  guessed  what  Miss  Chrissy 
meant — that  a  study  of  it  would  discourage  an  aspirant 
to  good  society  from  smiling  up  at  it  between  her  ankles. 
She  forgave  the  divined  intention  of  the  gift,  for  the  gift 
itself  was  precisely  what  her  soul  had  been  craving. 
She  borrowed  it  for  the  day  with  affected  nonchalance — 
Tilda  never  gave  herself  away — and  hugged  the  vol- 
ume in  her  pocket  as  she  and  Arthur  Miles  and  'Dolph 
explored  the  coomb's  downward  windings  to  the  sea. 

A  moor  stream  ran  down  the  coomb,  dodging  and 
twisting  between  the  overlaps  of  the  hills,  and  ended 
in  a  fairy  waterfall,  over  which  it  sprang  some  thirty 
feet  to  alight  on  a  beach  of  clean-washed  boulders.  Close 
beside  the  edge  of  the  fall  stood  a  mud-walled  cottage, 
untenanted  and  roofless,  relic  of  a  time  when  Farmer 
Tossell's  father  had  adventured  two  or  three  hundred 

300 


THE  HUNTED  STAG 

pounds  in  the  fishery,  and  kept  a  man  here  with  two 
grown  sons  to  look  after  his  nets.  Nettles  crowded  the 
doorway,  and  even  sprouted  from  crevices  of  the  empty 
window  sockets.  Nettles  alnwst  breast-high  carpeted 
the  kitchen  floor  to  the  hearthstone.  Nettles,  in  fact — 
whole  regiments  of  nettles — had  taken  possession  and 
defended  it.  But  Tilda,  with  the  book  in  her  pocket, 
decided  that  here  was  the  very  spot  for  her — a  real  house 
in  which  to  practise  the  manners  and  deportment  of  a 
real  lady,  and  she  resolved  to  borrow  or  steal  a  hook 
after  dinner  and  clear  the  nettles  away.  Farmer  Tossell 
had  promised  the  children  that  on  the  morrow  he  would 
(as  he  put  it)  ride  them  over  to  Miss  Sally's  house  at 
Culvercoombe,  to  pay  a  call  on  that  great  gentlewoman ; 
to-morrow  being  Sunday  and  his  day  of  leisure.  But 
to-day  he  was  busy  with  the  sheep,  and  the  children  had  a 
long  morning  and  afternoon  to  fill  up  as  best  they  might. 
Arthur  Miles  did  not  share  Tilda's  rapture  over  the 
ruined  cottage,  and  for  a  very  good  reason.  He  was 
battling  with  a  cruel  disappointment.  All  the  way 
down  the  coomb  he  had  been  on  the  look-out  for  his 
Island,  at  every  new  twist  and  bend  hoping  for  sight  of 
it;  and  behold,  when  they  came  here  to  the  edge  of  the 
beach,  a  fog  almost  as  dense  as  yesterday's  had  drifted 
up  Channel,  and  the  Island  was  invisible.  Somewhere 
out  yonder  it  surely  lay,  and  faith  is  the  evidence  of 
things  not  seen;  but  it  cost  him  all  his  fortitude  to  keep 
back  his  tears  and  play  the  man. 

301 


TRUE  TILDA 

By  and  by,  leaning  over  the  edge  of  the  fall,  he  made 
a  discovery  that  almost  cheered  him.  Right  below,  and 
a  litde  to  the  left  of  the  rocky  pool  in  which  the  tumbling 
stream  threw  up  bubbles  like  champagne,  lay  a  boat 
— a  boat  without  oars  or  mast  or  rudder,  yet  plainly 
serviceable,  and  even  freshly  painted.  She  was  stanch, 
too,  for  some  pints  of  water  overflowed  her  bottom 
boards  where  her  stern  pointed  down  the  beach — 
collected  rain-water,  perhaps,  or  splashings  from  the 
pool. 

The  descent  appeared  easy  to  the  right  of  the  fall, 
and  the  boy  clambered  down  to  examine  her.  She 
lay  twenty  feet  or  more — or  almost  twice  her  length — 
above  the  line  of  dried  seaweed  left  by  the  high  spring 
tides.  Arthur  Miles  knew  nothing  about  tides;  but  he 
soon  found  that,  tug  as  he  might  at  the  boat,  he  could 
not  budge  her  an  inch.  By  and  by  he  desisted  and 
began  to  explore  the  beach.  A  tangle  of  bramble 
bushes  draped  the  low  cliff  to  the  right  of  the  waterfall, 
and,  peering  beneath  these,  he  presently  discovered  a 
pair  of  paddles  and  a  rudder,  stored  away  for  safety. 
He  dragged  out  one  of  the  paddles  and  carried  it  to  the 
boat,  in  the  stern-sheets  of  which  he  made  his  next  find 
— five  or  six  thole-pins  afloat  around  a  rusty  baler.  He 
was  now  as  well  equipped  as  a  boy  could  hope  to  be  for 
an  imaginary  voyage,  and  was  fixing  the  thole-pins  for 
an  essay  in  the  art  of  rowing  upon  dry  land,  when 
Tilda,  emerging  from  the  cottage   (where  the  nettles 

302 


THE  HUNTED  STAG 

stung  her  legs)  and  missing  him,  came  to  the  edge  of  the 
fall  in  a  fright  lest  he  had  tumbled  over  and  broken  his 
neck.  Then,  catching  sight  of  him,  she  at  once  began 
to  scold — as  folks  will,  after  a  scare. 

"Come  down  and  play  at  boats!"  the  boy  invited 
her. 

"Shan't!"  snapped  Tilda.  "Leave  that  silly  boat 
alone,  an'  come  an'  play  at  houses." 

"Boats  aren't  silly,"  he  retorted;  "not  half  so  silly 
as  a  house  without  any  roof." 

"A  boat  out  of  water — bah!" 

Here  Tilda  was  forced  to  stoop  and  rub  her  calves, 
thus  in  one  moment  demonstrating  by  word  and  action 
how  much  she  had  to  learn  before  qualifying  to  shine 
in  Society. 

So  for  the  first  time  the  two  children  quarrelled,  and 
on  the  first  day  that  invited  them  to  cast  away  care  and 
be  as  happy  as  they  listed.  Arthur  Miles  turned  his 
back  upon  Tilda,  and  would  not  budge  from  his  boat; 
while  Tilda  seated  herself  huffily  upon  a  half-decayed 
log  by  the  cottage  doorway,  with  'Dolph  beside  her,  and 
perused  The  Lady's  Vade-Mecum.  "A  hostess,"  she 
read,  "should  make  her  preparations  beforehand,  and 
especially  avoid  appearing  distraite  during  the  progress 
of  dinner.  .  .  .  Small  blunders  in  the  service  should 
either  be  ignored,  or,  at  the  worst,  glided  over  with  a 
laughing  apology.  ...  A  trace  too  much  of  cura9oa 
in  the  salade  d'oranges  will  be  less  easily  detected  and,  if 

303 


TRUE  TILDA 

detected,  more  readily  pardoned,  than  the  slightest  sus- 
picion of  gene  on  the  part  of  the  presiding  goddess.  .  .  . 
In  England  it  is  customary  to  offer  sherry  with  the  soup, 
but  this  should  not  be  dispensed  lavishly.  Nursed  by 
a  careful  butler  (.or  parlour-maid,  as  the  case  may  be), 
a  single  bottle  will  sherry  twelve  guests,  or,  should  the 
glasses  be  economical,  thirteen.  Remember  the  Gre- 
cian proverb,  'Meden  agan,'  or  'In  all  thing.s  modera- 
tion.' All  this  Tilda  read  in  a  chapter  which  started 
with  the  sentence,  'A  dinner  is  a  Waterloo  which  even 
a  Napoleon  may  lose;  and  it  is  with  especial  care, 
therefore,  almost  with  trepidation,  that  we  open  this 
chapter.  We  will  assume  that  our  pupil  has  sufficiently 
mastered  those  that  precede  it;  that  she  is  apparelled 
for  the  fray,  her  frock  modest  but  chic,  her  coiffure  ade- 
quate. .  .  .'"  This  was  going  too  fast.  She  harked 
back  and  read,  under  General  Observations,  that  "It 
is  the  hall-mark  of  a  lady  to  be  sure  of  herself  under 
all  circumstances,"  and  that  "A  lady  must  prac- 
tise self-restraint,  and  never  allow  herself  to  exhibit 
temper." 

"And  I'm  showin'  temper  at  this  moment!  Oh, 
'Dolph" — she  caught  the  dog  close  to  her  in  a  hug — 
"the  lot  we've  got  to  learn!" 

'Dolph  might  have  answered  that  he  for  his  part 
was  practising  self-restraint,  and  practising  it  hard. 
He  loved  his  mistress  before  all  the  world,  but  he  had 
no  opinion  of  books,  and  would  have  vastly  preferred 

304 


THE  HUNTED  STAG 

to  be  on  the  beach  with  Arthur  Miles,  nosing  about  the 
boat  or  among  the  common  objects  of  the  seashore. 

By  this  time  Arthur  Miles,  too,  was  feeling  lonely 
and  contrite.  On  their  way  back  to  dinner — signalled 
by  the  blowing  of  a  horn  in  the  farm  place — he  ranged 
up  beside  Tilda  and  said  gently,  "I'm  sorry,"  upon 
which,  to  her  astonishment,  Tilda's  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  She  herself  could  not  have  said  it;  but  somehow 
it  was  just  by  differing  from  her  and  from  other  folks 
that  this  boy  endeared  himself. 

The  reconciliation  made  them  both  very  happy,  and 
after  dinner — to  which  the  whole  family,  the  shepherd, 
and  half  a  dozen  labourers  assembled,  so  that  Tilda 
marvelled  how,  even  with  a  fireplace  so  ample,  Mrs. 
Tossell  managed  to  cook  for  them  all — Arthur  Miles 
boldly  approached  Chrissy  and  got  her  to  persuade  her 
sweetheart,  Festus,  to  lend  him  a  hook.  Armed  with 
this,  the  children  retraced  their  steps  down  the  coomb. 
The  fog  had  lifted  a  little,  and  in  the  offing  Holmness 
loomed  out  dimly,  with  a  streak  of  golden  light  on  the 
water  beyond  its  westernmost  cliffs.  But  the  boy  nerved 
himself;  he  would  not  loiter  to  gaze  at  it,  but  strode 
into  the  cottage  and  began  hacking  with  great  fierce- 
ness at  the  nettles,  which  Tilda — her  hands  cased  in  a 
pair  of  old  pruning  gloves — gathered  in  skirtfuls  and 
carried  out  of  door.  Godolphus,  in  his  joy  at  this 
restored  amity,  played  at  assisting  Arthur  Miles  in  his 

305 


TRUE  TILDA 

onslaught,  barking  and  leaping  at  the  nettles,  yet  never 
quite  closely  enough  to  endanger  his  sensitive  nose. 

They  had  been  engaged  thus  for  half  an  hour,  per- 
haps, when  they  heard  a  horn  sounded  far  up  the 
coomb.  It  had  not  the  note  of  Mrs.  Tossell's  dinner- 
horn;  it  seemed  to  travel,  too,  from  a  distance  beyond 
the  farm,  and  as  Tilda  listened,  it  was  followed  by  a 
yet  fainter  sound,  as  of  many  dogs  baying  or  barking 
together.  'Dolph  heard  it,  yapped  excitedly,  and 
made  a  dash  out  through  the  doorway.  But,  when 
Tilda  followed,  the  sounds  had  died  away.  The 
coomb  was  silent  save  for  the  chatter  of  the  fall  and 
the  mewing  of  an  army  of  sea-gulls  up  the  vale,  where, 
on  the  farthest  slope  in  sight,  young  Roger  paced  to 
and  fro  with  a  team  of  horses  breaking  up  the  stubble. 

Tilda  whistled  'Dolph  back  and  fell  to  work  again, 
filling  her  lap  with  netUes;  but  the  load  was  scarcely 
complete  before  the  dog,  who  had  been  whimpering 
and  trembling  with  excitement,  made  another  dash  for 
the  open,  his  yells  all  but  drowning  a  thud  of  hoofs 
with  which  a  dark  body  hurled  itself  past  the  doorway, 
between  the  children  and  the  sunshine,  and  so  leapt 
clear  for  the  beach  over  the  fall. 

Tilda,  running  to  the  doorway,  saw  the  animal  leap, 
but  in  so  quick  a  flash  that  she  noted  nothing  but  its 
size,  and  mistook  it  for  a  riderless,  runaway  horse.  Then 
as  it  appeared  again  and  with  three  bounds  cleared  the 
beach  and  plunged  into  the  sea,  she  knew  that  it  was  no 

306 


THE  HUNTED  STAG 

horse  but  a  huge  stag — even  such  a  stag  as  she  had  seen 
portrayed  on  menagerie  posters — a  huge  Exmoor  stag 
leaping  dark  against  the  sun,  but  with  a  flame  along 
the  russet-gold  ridge  of  his  back  and  flame  tipping  his 
noble  antlers  as  he  laid  them  back  and  breasted  the 
quiet  swell  of  the  waves. 

The  hounds  were  close  upon  him.  Not  until  they 
were  close  had  he  quitted  his  hide-hole  in  the  stream, 
where  for  the  last  time  he  had  broken  the  scent  for 
them.  This  was  the  third  stream  he  had  used  since 
they  had  tufted  him  out  of  the  wood  where  through  the 
summer  he  had  lorded  it,  thirty-five  miles  away;  and 
each  stream  had  helped  him,  and  had  failed  him  in  the 
end.  He  had  weakened  the  scent  over  stony  bridges, 
checked  it  through  dense  brakes  of  gorse,  fouled  and 
baffled  it  by  charging  through  herds  of  cattle  and 
groups  of  hinds  of  his  own  race  couching  or  pasturing 
with  their  calves ;  for  the  stag-hunting  season  was  draw- 
ing close  to  its  end,  and  in  a  few  weeks  it  would  be  the 
hinds'  turn.  But  the  hinds  knew  that  their  peril  was 
not  yet,  and,  being  as  selfish  as  he,  they  had  helped  him 
but  little  or  not  at  all.    And  now  his  hour  was  near. 

For  even  while  the  children  gazed  after  him  the 
hounds  came  streaming  down  the  coomb  in  a  flood, 
with  a  man  on  a  gray  horse  close  behind  them;  and 
behind  him,  but  with  a  gap  between,  a  straggling  line 
of  riders  broke  into  sight,  some  scarlet-coated,  others 
in  black  or  in  tweeds.     The  man  on  the  gray  horse 

307 


TRUE  TILDA 

shouted  up  the  hill  to  Roger,  who  had  left  his  team  and 
was  running.  Away  over  the  crest  above  him  two  la- 
bourers hove  in  sight,  these  also  running  at  full  speed. 
And  all — hounds,  horses,  men — were  pouring  down 
the  coomb  toward  the  beach. 

The  hounds  swept  down  in  a  mass  so  solid  and  com- 
pact that  Tilda  dragged  Arthur  Miles  into  the  door- 
way, fearful  of  being  swept  by  them  over  the  edge  of 
the  fall.  Past  the  cottage  they  streamed,  down  over 
the  grassy  cliff,  and  across  the  beach.  'Dolph,  barking 
furiously  by  the  edge  of  the  waves,  was  caught  and 
borne  down  by  the  first  line  of  them— borne  down  and 
rolled  over  into  the  water  with  no  more  ceremony  than 
if  he  had  been  a  log.  They  did  not  deign  to  hurt  him, 
but  passed  on  swimming,  and  he  found  his  feet  and 
emerged  behind  them,  sneezing  and  shaking  himself 
and  looking  a  fool.  He  was,  as  we  know,  sensitive 
about  looking  a  fool;  but  just  then  no  one  had  time  to 
laugh  at  him. 

The  riders  had  arrived,  and  reined  up,  crowding  the 
ledge  before  the  cottage,  and  the  most  of  them  stood 
raising  themselves  in  their  stirrups,  gazing  after  the 
stag  that  now,  with  little  more  than  his  anders  visible 
like  a  bleached  bough  moving  on  the  flood,  swam 
strongly  out  into  the  golden  mist  still  cloaking  the 
Island.  Moment  by  moment  he  out-distanced  the 
wedge-shaped  ripple  where  the  heads  of  the  tired  pack 
bobbed  in  pursuit;    for  here,  as  always  in  water,  the 

308 


THE  HUNTED  STAG 

deer  held  the  advantage,  being  able  to  float  and  rest  at 
will,  while  the  hound  must  always  ply  his  fore  legs  or 
sink.  The  huntsman,  however,  judged  it  impossible  that 
he  could  reach  Holmness.  He  and  a  dozen  gentlemen 
had  dismounted,  clambered  down  beside  the  fall,  and 
were  dragging  the  boat  down  the  beach  to  launch  her, 
when  Roger  and  the  two  labourers  burst  through  the 
throng  and  took  charge;  since  to  recover  a  deer  that 
takes  to  the  sea  means  a  guinea  from  the  hunt.  And  the 
boat  was  necessary  now,  for  as  the  Inistow  men  launched 
her  and  sprang  aboard  the  leading  hounds  realised  that 
their  quarry  could  not  be  headed,  or  that  their  remain- 
ing strength  would  scarcely  carry  them  back  to  shore, 
and  gave  up  the  chase.  By  this  the  hunted  stag  gained 
another  respite,  for  as  the  rowers  pulled  in  his  wake 
they  had  to  pause  half  a  dozen  times  and  haul  on  board 
a  hound  that  appeared  on  the  point  of  sinking. 

At  the  last  moment  the  huntsman  had  leapt  into  the 
stern-sheets  of  the  boat.  He  had  his  knife  ready,  and 
the  rowers  too  had  a  rope  ready  to  lasso  the  stag's  ant- 
lers when  they  caught  up  with  him.  Ashore  the  hud- 
dled crowd  of  riders  watched  the  issue.  The  children 
watched  with  them;  and  while  they  watched  a  sharp, 
authoritative  voice  said,  close  above  Tilda's  ear: 

"They  won't  reach  him  now.  He'll  sink  before  they 
get  to  him,  and  I'm  glad  of  it.  He's  given  us  the  last 
and  best  run  of  as  good  a  season  as  either  of  us  can 
remember — eh.  Parson  ?" 

309 


TRUE  TILDA 

Tilda  looked  up  with  a  sudden  leap  of  the  heart. 
Above  her,  on  a  raw  roan,  sat  a  strong-featured  lady  in 
a  bottle-green  riding-habit,  with  a  top  hat— the  nap  of 
which  had  apparendy  been  brushed  the  wrong  way — 
set  awry  on  her  iron-gray  locks. 

The  clergyman  she  addressed— a  keen-faced,  hunt- 
ing parson,  elderly,  clean-shaven,  upright  as  a  ramrod 
on  his  mud-splashed  gray — answered  half  to  himself 
and  in  a  foreign  tongue. 

"Latin,  hey?    You  must  translate  for  me." 

"A  pagan  sentiment,  ma'am,  from  a  pagan  poet. 
...  If  I  were  Jove,  that  stag  should  sleep  to-night 
under  the  waves  on  a  coral  bed.    He  deserves  it." 

"  Or,  better  still,  swim  out  to  Holmness  and  reign  his 
last  days  there,  a  solitary  king." 

The  Parson  shook  his  head  as  he  gazed. 

"They  would  be  few  and  hungry  ones,  ma'am,  on 
an  island  more  barren  than  Ithaca;  no  shady  coverts, 
no  young  ash  roots  to  nibble,  no  turnip  fields  to  break 
into  and  spoil.  .  .  .  Jove's  is  the  better  boon,  by  your 
leave." 

"And,  by  Jove,  he  has  it!  .  .  .  Use  your  eyes, 
please;  yours  are  better  than  mine.  For  my  part, 
I've  lost  him." 

They  sat  erect  in  their  saddles,  straining  their  gaze 
over  the  sea. 

"It's  hard  to  say — looking  straight  here  against  the 

sun,  and  with  all  this  fog  drifting  about " 

310 


THE  HUNTED  STAG 

But  here  a  cry,  breaking  almost  simultaneously  from 
a  score  of  riders,  drew  his  attention  to  the  boat. 

"Yes,  the  boat — they  have  ceased  pulling.  He  must 
have  sunk!" 

"  God  rest  his  bones — if  a  Christian  may  say  it." 

"Why  not,  ma'am?" 

But  as  he  turned  to  her  the  lady  turned  also,  bending 
down  at  a  light,  eager  touch  on  her  stirrup. 

"Oh,  ma'am!  ...  Oh,  Miss  Sally!" 

Miss  Sally  stared  down  into  the  small  upturned  face. 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Now  where  in  the  world  have  I  seen  you 
before?  Why,  mercy,  if  it  ain't  the  child  Elphinstone 
ran  over!" 


311 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  VOYAGE 

"Many  a  green  isle  needs  vmst  be  .  .  .   " — Shelley. 

The  boat  had  given  up  its  search,  and  returned  to 
shore.  The  hunt  had  wound  back  up  the  coomb  in 
a  body,  and  thence  homeward  in  the  faihng  light  over 
the  heather,  breaking  up  into  small  parties  as  their 
ways  parted,  and  calling  good-nights  after  the  best 
run  of  the  season.  But  Miss  Sally  and  Parson  Chich- 
ester sat  talking  in  the  best  parlour  at  Inistow,  and 
still  sat  on  while  the  level  sunset  shone  blood-red 
through  the  geraniums  on  the  window  ledge,  and  faded 
and  gave  place  to  twilight. 

They  had  heard  the  children's  story;  had  turned  it 
inside  out  and  upside  down,  cross-questioning  them 
both;  and  had  ended  by  dismissing  them  for  the  time. 
To-morrow,  Miss  Sally  promised.  Farmer  Tossell  should 
be  as  good  as  his  word,  and  ride  them  over  to  Culver- 
coombe,  where,  perhaps,  she  might  have  a  few  more 
questions  to  put  to  them.  For  the  present  she  and  Mr. 
Chichester  had  enough  to  talk  over. 

The  interview  had  lasted  a  good  hour,  and  Arthur 

312 


THE  VOYAGE 

Miles  was  glad  to  regain  his  liberty.  The  boy's  manner 
had  been  polite  enough,  but  constrained.  He  had 
stripped  and  shown  the  mark  on  his  shoulder;  he  had 
answered  all  questions  truthfully,  and  Miss  Sally's 
readily — with  the  Parson  he  had  been  less  at  home — 
but  he  had  managed  to  convey  the  impression  that  he 
found  the  whole  business  something  of  a  bore;  and, 
indeed,  he  asked  himself,  Where  was  the  point  of  it? 
If  only,  instead  of  asking  questions,  they  would  take 
him  to  the  Island  now!  .  .  . 

But  when  he  would  have  followed  Tilda  from  the 
room,  she  took  hold  of  him,  pushed  him  out,  and  clos- 
ing the  door  upon  him,  turned  back  and  walked  up  to 
the  two  elders  where  they  sat. 

"You  mus'n'  judge  Arthur  Miles  by  to-day,"  she 
pleaded,  meeting  the  amused,  expectant  twinkle  in 
Miss  Sally's  eye.  *"E  didn't  show  at  'is  best — along 
of  'm." 

She  nodded  toward  the  Parson. 

"Eh,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Chichester,  "what  you 
may  call  my  locus  standi  in  this  affair  is  just  nothing  at 
all.  If  the  child  had  demanded  my  right  to  be  putting 
questions  to  him,  'faith,  I  don't  know  what  I  could  have 
answered." 

"It  ain't  that  at  all,"  said  Tilda,  after  considering 
a  while.  "It's  your  bein'  a  clergyman.  'E's  shy  of 
clergymen.  If  ever  you'd  seen  Glasson  you  wouldn' 
wonder  at  it,  neither." 

.313 


TRUE  TILDA 

"I'd  like  to  persuade  him  that  the  clergy  are  not  all 
Glassons.  Perhaps  you  might  ask  him  to  give  me  a 
chance,  next  time?" 

"Oh,  you?"  Tilda  answered,  turning  in  the  door- 
way and  nodding  gravely.  "  You're  all  right,  o'  course. 
W'y,  you  sit  a  hoss  a'most  well  enough  for  a  circus!" 

"That  child  is  a  brick,"  laughed  Miss  Sally  as  the 
door  closed. 

"At  this  moment,"  said  Mr.  Chichester,  "I  should 
be  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  dispute  it.  Her  testi- 
monial was  not,  perhaps,  unsolicited;  still,  I  never 
dreamed  of  one  that  tickled  my  secret  vanity  so  hap- 
pily. I  begin  to  believe  her  story,  and  even  to  under- 
stand how  she  has  carried  through  this  amazing  anab- 
asis.   Shall  we  have  the  horses  saddled  ? " 

He  rang  the  bell.  Mrs.  Tossell  answered  it,  bringing 
with  her  a  tray  of  cold  meats,  apple  tart,  syllabubs, 
glasses,  and  a  flagon  of  home-made  cider.  Yes,  to  be 
sure,  they  might  have  their  horses  saddled ;  but  they 
might  not  go  before  observing  Inistow's  full  ritual  of 
hospitality. 

Miss  Sally  plied  (as  she  put  it)  a  good  knife  and  fork, 
and  the  Parson  was  hungry  as  a  hunter  should  be. 
They  ate,  therefore,  and  talked  little  for  a  while:  there 
would  be  time  for  talk  on  the  long  homeward  ride. 
But  when,  in  Homer's  words,  they  had  put  from  them 
the  desire  of  meat  and  drink,  and  had  mounted  and 

314 


THE  VOYAGE 

bidden  Mrs.  Tossell  farewell,  Parson  Chichester  re- 
opened the  conversation. 

"You  believe  the  child's  story,  then?" 

"Why,  of  course;  and  so  must  you.  Man  alive, 
truth  was  written  all  over  it!" 

"Yes,  yes;  I  was  using  a  fashion  of  speech.  And 
the  boy?" 

"Is  Miles  Chandon's  son.  On  that,  too,  you  may 
lay  all  Lombard  Street  to  a  china  orange."  In  the  twi- 
light Miss  Sally  leaned  forward  for  a  moment  and 
smoothed  her  roan's  mane.  "You  know  the  history,  of 
course?" 

"Very  little  of  it.  I  knew,  to  be  sure,  that  somehow 
Chandon  had  made  a  mess  of  things — turned  unbe- 
liever, and  what  not " 

"Is  that  all?"  Miss  Sally,  for  all  her  surprise,  ap- 
peared to  be  slightly  relieved.  "But  I  was  forgetting. 
You're  an  unmarried  man:  a  wife  would  have  taught 
you  the  tale  and  a  hundred  guesses  beside.  Of  all 
women  in  the  world,  parsons'  wives  are  the  most  in- 
quisitive." 

Mr.  Chichester  made  no  reply  to  this.  She  glanced 
at  him  after  a  pause,  and  observed  that  he  rode  with 
set  face  and  looked  straight  ahead  between  his  horse's 
ears. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said.  "When  folks  come  to  our 
time  of  life  without  marrying,  nine  times  out  of  ten 
there  has  been  a  mess;  and  what  I  said  a  moment  since 

315 


TRUE  TILDA 

is  just  the  flippant  talk  we  use  to  cover  it  up.  By  'our 
time  of  life'  I  don't  mean,  of  course,  that  we're  of  an 
age,  you  and  I,  but  that  we've  fixed  our  fate,  formed 
our  habits,  made  our  beds,  and  must  lie  in  'em  as  com- 
fortably as  we  can  manage.  ...  I  was  a  girl  when 
Miles  Chandon  came  to  grief;  you  were  a  grown  man 
— had  been  away  for  years,  if  I  recollect,  on  some  mis- 
sionary expedition." 

"In  north-east  China." 

"To  be  sure,  yes;  and,  no  doubt,  making  the  dis- 
covery that  converting  Chinamen  was.  as  hopeless  a 
business  as  to  forget  Exmoor  and  the  Quantocks." 

"I  had  put  my  hand  to  the  plough " 

" — and  God  by  an  illness  gently  released  it.  I  have 
heard.  .  .  .  Well,  to  get  back  to  Miles  Chandon.  .  .  . 
He  was  young — a  second  son,  you'll  remember,  and 
poor  at  that;  a  second  lieutenant  in  the  Navy,  with  no 
more  than  his  pay  and  a  trifling  allowance.  The  boy 
had  good  instincts,"  said  Miss  Sally  with  a  short, 
abrupt  laugh.  "I  may  as  well  say  at  once  that  he 
wanted  to  marry  me,  but  had  been  forced  to  dismiss 
the  notion." 

Again  she  paused  a  moment  before  taking  up  the 
story. 

"Well,  his  ship — the  Pegasus — was  bringing  him 
home  after  two  years  on  the  Australian  station.  .  .  . 
Heaven  help  me!  I'm  an  old  sportswoman  now,  and 
understand  something  of  the  male  animal  and  his  pas- 

316 


THE  VOYAGE 

sions.  In  those  days  I  must  have  been — or  so  it  strikes 
me,  looking  back — a  sort  of  plain-featured  Diana; 
'chaste  huntress' — isn't  that  what  thev  called  her?  At 
any  rate,  the  story  shocked,  even  sickened,  me  a  little 
at  the  time.  ...  It  appears  that  the  night  before  mak- 
ing Plymouth  Sound  he  made  a  bet  in  the  wardroom — 
a  bet  of  fifty  pounds — that  he'd  marry  the  first  woman 
he  met  ashore.  Pretty  mad,  was  it  not? — even  for  a 
youngster  coming  home  penniless,  with  no  prospects, 
and  to  a  home  he  hated ;  for  his  father  and  mother  were 
dead,  and  he  and  his  elder  brother  Anthony  had  never 
been  able  to  hit  it  off.  .  .  .  On  the  whole,  you  may  say 
he  got  better  than  he  deserved.  For  some  reason  or 
other  they  halted  the  Pegasus  outside  the  Hamoaze — 
dropped  anchor  in  Cawsand  Bay,  in  fact;  and  there, 
getting  leave  for  shore,  the  young  fool  met  his  fate  on 
Cawsand  quay.  She  was  a  coast-guard's  daughter — 
a  decent  girl,  I've  heard,  and  rather  strikingly  hand- 
some. I'll  leave  it  to  you  what  he  might  have  found  if 
he'd  happened  to  land  at  Plymouth.  .  .  .  He  got  more 
than  half  drunk  that  night;  but  a  day  or  two  later, 
when  the  ship  was  paid  off,  he  went  back  from  Plym- 
outh to  Cawsand,  and  within  a  week  he  had  married 
her.  Then  it  turned  out  that  fate  had  been  nursing  its 
stroke.  At  Sidmouth,  on  the  second  day  of  the  honey- 
moon, a  redirected  telegram  reached  him,  and  he  learnt 
that  by  Anthony's  death  Meriton  was  his,  and  the  title 
with  it.     He  left  his  bride  at  once,  and  posted  up  to 

317 


TRUE  TILDA 

Meriton  for  the  funeral,  arriving  just  in  time;  and  there 
I  saw  him,  for  we  all  happened  to  be  at  Culvercoombe 
for  the  shooting,  and  women  used  to  attend  funerals  in 
those  days,  .  .  .  No  one  knew  of  the  marriage;  but 
that  same  evening  he  rode  over  to  Culvercoombe,  asked 
for  a  word  with  me  .in  private,  and  told  me  the  whole 
story — pluckily  enough,  I  am  bound  to  say.  God  knows 
what  I  had  expected  those  words  in  private  to  be;  and 
perhaps  in  the  revulsion  of  learning  the  truth  I  lashed 
out  on  him.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  had  a  tongue  in  those  days — 
have  still,  for  that  matter;  not  a  doubt  but  I  made  him 
feel  it.  The  world,  you  see,  seemed  at  an  end  for  both 
of  us.  I  had  no  mother  to  help  me,  and  my  brother 
Elphinstone's  best  friend  wouldn't  call  him  the  man  to 
advise  in  such  a  business.  Moreover,  where  was  the 
use  of  advice?  The  thing  was  done,  past  undoing. 
.  .  .  Oh,"  Miss  Sally  went  on,  "you  are  not  to  think 
I  broke  my  heart  over  it.  As  I've  tried  to  explain,  I  was 
disgusted  rather:  I  loathed  the  man,  and — and — well, 
this  is  not  the  history  of  Sally  Breward,  so  once  more 
we'll  get  back  to  Miles  Chandon.  .  .  .  He  rode  off; 
but  he  didn't  ride  back  to  Sidmouth.  In  his  rage  he  did 
a  thing  that,  I  now  see,  was  far  baser  than  his  original 
folly.  I  saw  it  as  soon  as  my  mind  cleared;  but — since 
this  is  a  confession  of  a  sort — I  didn't  see  it  at  the  time, 
for  I  hated  the  woman.  He  wrote  her  a  letter;  stuck 
a  cheque  inside,  I  daresay — he  was  brute  enough  just 
then;    and  told  her  she  might  claim  her  price  if  she 

318 


THE  VOYAGE 

chose,  but  that  he  would  never  see  her  again.  .  .  . 
She  went  back  to  her  coast-guard  people." 

"It  would  seem,"  said  Mr.  Chichester  gravely,  as  she 
paused  for  a  while,  "that  he  did  not  even  supply  her 
with  alimony — that  is,  if  the  child's  story  be  true." 

"Probably  she  refused  to  accept  any.  I  think  we 
must  suppose  that,  in  justice  to  her — and  to  him.  Let 
me  finish  my  confession.  ...  I  thought  I  could  never 
endure  to  look  on  the  woman;  I  have  never,  as  a  fact, 
set  eyes  on  her.  I  don't  know  that  she  ever  knew  of  my 
existence.  If  we  meet,  t'other  side  of  the  grave,  there'll 
be  a  deal  to  be  discussed  between  us  before  we  straighten 
things  out;  but  I'll  have  to  start  by  going  up  and  intro- 
ducing myself  and  telling  her  that,  in  the  end,  she  beat 
me.  .  .  .  Yes,  Parson,  you'll  hardly  believe  it,  but  one 
day,  finding  myself  in  Plymouth,  I  took  a  boat  from 
Admiral's  Hard,  and  crossed  over  to  Maker  Parish  to 
make  inquiries.  This  was  two  years  later,  and  she  had 
gone — moved  with  her  father  (God  help  her,  like  me, 
she  hadn't  a  mother)  to  some  station  on  the  east  coast — 
the  folk  in  Cawsand  and  Kingsand  couldn't  tell  me 
where.  But  they  told  me  a  child  had  been  born ;  which 
was  new  to  me.  They  weren't  sure  that  it  was  alive, 
and  were  wholly  vague  about  the  father — called  him 
Chandon,  to  be  sure,  but  supposed  the  name  to  be  spelt 
with  an  'S'  as  pronounced;  told  me  he  was  an  oflBcer 
in  the  Navy,  reputed  to  be  an  earl's  son.  Gossip  had 
arrived  no  nearer.     She  was  respectable,  all  agreed; 

319 


TRUE  TILDA 

no  doubt  about  her  marriage  lines;  and  the  register- 
confirmed  it,  with  the  right  spelHng — the  marriage  and, 
ten  months  later,  the  boy's  christening.  Arthur  Miles 
was  the  name.  That  is  all,  or  almost  all.  It  seems  that 
toward  the  end  of  his  time  there  her  father  became 
maudlin  in  his  wits;  and  the  woman — her  maiden 
name  had  been  Reynolds,  Helen  Reynolds — relied  for 
help  and  advice  upon  an  old  shipmate  of  his,  also  a 
coast-guard,  called  Ned  Commins.  It  was  Ned  Com- 
mins  they  followed  when  he  was  moved  to  the  east 
coast,  the  father  being  by  this  time  retired  on  a  pension. 
And  that  is  really  all.  I  was  weary,  ashamed  of  my 
curiosity,  and  followed  the  search  no  further." 

"You  must  follow  it  now,"  said  Parson  Chichester 
quietly. 

"That's  understood." 

"What  do  you  propose  as  the  first  step ?" 

"Why,  to  ride  to  Meriton  to-morrow,  and  get  Miles 
Chandon's  address.  He's  somewhere  in  the  South  of 
France.  It's  ten  years  or  so  since  we  parted,  that  even- 
ing of  the  funeral;  but  a  telegram  from  me  will  fetch 
him,  or  I  am  mistaken." 

"Let  me  save  you  some  trouble.  To-morrow  is 
Sunday,  and  my  parishioners  will  be  glad  enough  to 
escape  a  sermon  at  Morning  Service.  Let  me  cut  the 
sermon  and  ride  over  to  Meriton,  get  the  address,  and 
bring  it  to  Culvercoombe.  I  ought  to  reach  there  by 
three  in  the  afternoon,  but  the  precise  hour  does  not 

320 


THE  VOYAGE 

matter,  since  in  these  parts  there's  no  telegraphing 
before  Monday." 

"That's  a  good  neighbourly  offer,  and  I'll  accept  it," 
answered  Miss  Sally,  "I  could  ride  over  to  Meriton 
myself,  of  course.  But  Tossell  has  promised  to  bring 
the  children  to  Culvercoombe  in  the  early  afternoon, 
and  this  will  give  you  an  excuse  to  be  present.  Some 
questions  may  occur  to  you  between  this  and  then ;  and, 
anyway,  I'd  like  to  have  you  handy." 

No  more  was  said.  They  parted,  having  come  to 
a  point  where  the  rising  moon  showed  their  paths  lying 
separate  across  the  moor.  Their  lonely  homes  lay  eight 
miles  apart.  Even  by  daylight  one  unaccustomed  to 
the  moor  could  hardly  have  detected  the  point  where 
the  track  divided  in  the  smothering  heather.  But  these 
two  could  have  found  it  even  in  the  dark;  being  hunt- 
ers both,  and  children  of  the  moor,  bom  and  bred. 

Had  they  known  it,  even  while  they  talked  together 
something  was  happening  to  upset  their  plans  for  the 
morrow,  and  for  days  to  come. 

The  children,  as  they  left  the  parlour,  had  been 
intercepted  by  ]\Irs.  Tossell  with  the  information  that 
tea  was  ready  for  them  in  the  kitchen. 

"Wot,  another  meal?"  said  Tilda. 

Twenty-four  hours  ago  a  world  that  actually  pro- 
vided too  much  to  eat  would  have  been  inconceivable 
by  her.    But  already  the  plenty  of  Inistow  was  passing 

321 


TRUE  TILDA 

from  a  marvel  into  a  burden.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the 
great  kitchen  fire  never  rested,  as  indeed  it  seldom  did. 
Even  when  the  house  slept,  great  caldrons  of  milk 
hung  simmering  over  the  hot  wood  ashes. 

Tea  over,  the  children  started  once  again  for  their 
waterfall;  and  this  time  in  haste,  for  the  hollow  of  the 
coomb  lay  already  in  shadow,  and  soon  the  yellow 
evening  sunlight  would  be  fading  on  its  upper  slopes. 
Arthur  Miles  hungered  for  one  clear  view  of  his  Island 
before  nightfall;  Tilda  was  eager  to  survey  the  work 
accomplished  that  afternoon  in  the  cottage;  while 
'Dolph  scampered  ahead  and  paused  anon,  quivering 
with  excitement.  Who  can  say  what  the  dog  expected  ? 
Perchance  down  this  miraculous  valley  another  noble 
stag  would  come  coursing  to  his  death ;  and  next  time 
'Dolph  would  know  how  to  behave,  and  would  retrieve 
his  reputation — to  which,  by  the  way,  no  one  had  given 
a  thought.    But  dogs  can  be  self-conscious  as  men. 

Lo!  when  they  came  to  the  ledge  above  the  fall, 
Holmness  was  visible,  vignetted  in  a  gap  of  the  linger- 
ing fog,  and  standing  so  clear  against  the  level  sunset 
that  its  rocky  ledges,  tipped  here  and  there  with  flame, 
appeared  but  a  mile  distant,  or  only  a  trifle  more.  He 
caught  his  breath  at  sight  of  it,  and  pointed.  But  Tilda 
turned  aside  to  the  cottage.  This  craze  of  his  began  to 
annoy  her. 

She  was  yet  further  annoyed  when  he  joined  her  there, 
ten  minutes  later,  and  appeared  to  pay  small  attention, 

322 


THE  VOYAGE 

if  he  listened  at  all,  to  her  plans  for  to-morrow,  before 
the  ride  to  Culvercoombe.  There  could  be  no  more 
nettle  clearing  to-day.  Dusk  was  gathering  fast,  and 
in  another  hour  the  moon  would  rise.  So  back  once 
more  they  fared,  to  find  Mrs.  Tossell  busily  laying 
supper;  and  close  after  supper  came  prayer,  and  bed- 
time on  the  stroke  of  nine. 

An  hour  later  Tilda — who  slept,  as  a  rule,  like  a  top 
— awoke  from  uneasy  dreams  with  a  start,  and  opened 
her  eyes.  A  flood  of  moonlight  poured  in  at  the  win- 
dow, and  there  in  the  full  ray  of  it  stood  Arthur  Miles, 
fully  dressed. 

The  boy  let  drop  the  window  curtain,  and  came 
across  to  her  bed. 

"Are  you  awake?"  he  whispered.  "Get  up  and 
dress — ^we  can  do  it  easily." 

"Do  what?" 

"There's  a  tank  just  under  the  window — with  a  slate 
cover:  we  can  lower  ourselves  down  to  it  from  the  sill, 
and  after  that  it's  not  six  feet  to  the  ground." 

"What's  up  with  you?"  She  raised  herself,  and  sat 
rubbing  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  get  yer  clothes  off  an'  go  back 
to  bed!    Walkin'  in  yer  sleep  you  must  be." 

"If  you  won't  come  with  me,  I'm  going  alone." 

"Eh?"  She  stared  at  him  across  the  moon  ray,  for 
he  had  gone  back  to  the  window  and  lifted  the  curtain 
again.    "  But  where  in  the  world  ?" 

323 


TRUE  TILDA 

"To  Holmness." 

"  'Olmness  ?  .  .  .  It's  crazed  you  are." 

"I  am  not  crazed  at  all.  It's  all  quite  easy,  I  tell  you 
— easy  and  simple.  They've  left  the  boat  afloat — I've 
found  out  how  to  get  to  her — and  the  night  is  as  still  as 
can  be.  .  .  .  Are  you  coming?" 

"You'll  be  drowned,  I  tell  you — drowned  or  lost, 
for  sure " 

"Are  you  coming?" 

He  did  not  reason  with  her,  or  she  would  have  re- 
sisted. He  spoke  very  calmly,  and  for  the  first  time  she 
felt  his  will  mastering  hers.  One  thing  was  certain  — 
she  could  not  let  him  go  alone.  .  .  .  She  threw  back 
the  bedclothes,  slipped  out,  and  beg^n  to  dress,  pro- 
testing all  the  while  against  the  folly  of  it. 

To  reach  the  ground  was  mere  child's  play,  as  he 
had  promised.  From  the  broad  window  ledge  to  the 
slate  tank  was  an  easy  drop,  and  from  the  tank  they 
lowered  themselves  to  a  gravelled  pathway  that  led 
around  this  gable  of  the  house.  They  made  the  least 
possible  noise,  for  fear  of  awakening  the  farm  dogs; 
but  these  slept  in  an  out-house  of  the  great  farmyard, 
which  lay  on  the  far  side  of  the  building.  Here  the 
moon  shone  into  a  diminutive  garden  with  box-bor- 
dered flower  beds,  and  half-a-dozen  bee  skips  in  row 
against  a  hedge  of  privet,  and  at  the  end  of  the  gravelled 
walk  a  white  gate  glimmering. 

Arthur  Miles  tip-toed  to  the  gate,  lifted  its  latch  very 

324 


THE  VOYAGE 

cautiously,  and  held  it  aside  for  Tilda  to  pass.  They 
were  free. 

"Of  all  the  madness!"  she  muttered  as  they  made 
for  the  coomb. 

The  boy  did  not  answer.  He  knew  the  way  pretty 
well,  for  this  was  their  fourth  journey.  But  the  moon- 
light did  not  reach,  save  here  and  there,  the  hollows 
through  which  the  path  wound,  and  each  step  had  to 
be  carefully  picked. 

"Look  'ere,"  she  essayed  again  after  a  while,  "I 
won't  say  but  this  is  a  lark,  if  on'y  you'll  put  that  non- 
sense about  'Olmness  out  of  yer  mind.  We  can  go 
down  to  the  cottage  an'  make  believe  it's  yer  ancestral 
'ome " 

"Wh'st!"  he  commanded  sharply,  under  his  breath. 

She  listened.  Above  the  murmur  of  the  stream  her 
ears  caught  a  soft  pattering  sound  somewhere  in  the 
darkness  behind. 

"What  is  it?"    She  caught  at  his  arm. 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  do.  'Dolph?— is  it 
'Dolph?    Here  then — good  dog!" 

And  sure  enough  'Dolph  came  leaping  out  of  the 
darkness,  heaven  knows  by  what  instinct  guided, 
'Dolph,  too  wise  to  utter  a  single  bark,  but  springing 
to  lick  their  hands,  and  fawning  against  their  legs. 

The  dog's  presence  put  new  courage  into  Tilda,  she 
scarcely  knew  why,  and  henceforth  she  followed  more 
confidently.     With  a  stumble  or  two,  but  no  serious 

325 


TRUE  TILDA 

mishap,  they  groped  their  way  down  the  coomb,  and 
coming  to  the  ledge,  saw  the  beach  spread  at  their  feet 
in  the  moonlight,  and  out  on  the  water  the  dark  boat 
heaving  gently,  a  little  beyond  the  edge  of  the  waves' 
ripple.  The  tide  had  receded  since  their  last  visit,  and 
Arthur  Miles  knew  nothing  about  tides.  But  he  had 
discovered  the  trick  of  the  boat's  moorings.  The  farm 
men,  returning  from  their  pursuit  of  the  stag,  had 
dropped  a  small  anchor  attached  to  a  shore  line,  by 
which  at  high-water  they  could  draw  her  in  and  thus 
save  themselves  the  present  labour  of  hauling  her  up 
the  steep  beach.  But  the  weather  being  fair,  they  had 
suffered  high-water  to  pass,  and  let  her  ride  out  the 
night  as  she  lay. 

Arthur  Miles  knew  the  bush  to  which  the  shore  end 
of  the  line  was  attached,  and  scrambling  down  beside 
the  fall,  found  it  easily  and  untied  it.  As  a  fact  (of 
which,  however,  he  was  quite  unaware),  he  had  very 
little  time  to  lose.  In  another  twenty  minutes  the 
boat's  keel  would  have  taken  ground  immovably.  He 
ran  down  the  beach,  coiling  the  slack  of  the  line  as  he 
went;  tugged  at  the  anchor,  which  yielded  readily; 
found  it;  and  almost  at  the  same  moment  heard  the 
boat's  nose  grate  softly  on  the  pebbles.  The  beach 
shelved  steeply,  and  her  stern  lay  well  afloat;  nor  was 
there  any  run  of  sea  to  bafHe  him  by  throwing  her 
broadside-on  to  the  stones.  He  hurried  Tilda  aboard. 
She  clambered  over  the  thwarts  to  the  stern-sheets, 

326 


THE  VOYAGE 

'Dolph  sprang  after  her,  and  then  with  the  lightest  push 
the  boy  had  her  afloat — so  easily  indeed  that  she  had 
almost  slid  away,  leaving  him ;  but  he  just  managed  to 
clutch  the  gunwale  close  by  the  stern  and  to  scramble  after. 

He  seized  an  oar  at  once  and  thrust  off.  Next  came 
the  difiicult  job  of  working  her  round  and  pointing  her 
nose  for  the  sea.  Of  rowing  he  knew  nothing  at  all,  nor 
could  Tilda  help  him.  He  could  but  lift  the  clumsy 
oar,  and  ply  it  with  the  little  skill  he  had  learnt  on  the 
voyage  down  Avon,  as  one  plies  a  canoe  paddle.  Even 
to  do  this  he  was  forced  to  stand  erect  in  the  stern- 
sheets:  if  he  sat,  the  awkward  pole  would  overweight 
his  strength  completely.  But  the  boy  had  a  native  sense 
of  watermanship,  and  no  fear  at  all;  and  the  boat, 
being  a  stable  old  tub,  while  taxing  all  his  efforts, 
allowed  a  margin  for  mistakes.  Little  by  little  he 
brought  her  round,  and  paddled  her  clear  of  the  cove 
into  open  water. 

Even  then  he  might  have  desisted.  For  although 
the  moon,  by  this  time  high  aloft  behind  his  right 
shoulder,  shone  fair  along  the  waterway  to  the  Island, 
the  gray  mass  of  which  loomed  up  like  the  body  of  a 
sea  monster  anchored  and  asleep  in  the  offing,  he  soon 
discovered  that  his  own  strength  would  never  suffice  to 
drive  the  boat  so  far.  But  almost  on  the  moment  of  this 
discovery  he  made  two  others :  the  first,  that  the  tide — 
or,  as  he  supposed  it,  the  current — set  down  and  edged 
the  boat  at  every  stroke  a  little  toward   the  Island, 

327 


TRUE  TILDA 

which  lay,  in  fact,  well  down  to  the  westward  of  the 
cove,  and  by  half  a  mile  perhaps;  the  second,  that  out 
here  a  breeze,  hitherto  imperceptible,  was  blowing 
steadily  off  the  land.  He  considered  this  for  a  while, 
and  then  ordered  Tilda,  who  by  this  time  was  shivering 
with  cold,  to  pull  up  the  V-shaped  bottom  board  cover- 
ing the  well  in  the  stern  and  fix  it  upright  in  the  bows. 
She  did  this  obediently,  and,  so  placed,  it  acted  as  a 
diminutive  sail. 

Seeing  that  she  still  shivered,  he  commanded  her  to 
take  the  other  oar,  seat  herself  on  a  thwart  forward, 
and  do  her  best  to  work  it  as  they  had  seen  the  farm 
hands  pulling  after  the  stag.  Again  she  obeyed,  and  he 
fixed  the  thole-pins  for  her,  and  lifted  the  oar  into  place 
between  them.  But  with  the  first  stroke  she  missed  the 
water  altogether,  and  with  the  next  caught  a  crab, 
which  checked  the  boat  dead.  This  would  never  do; 
so,  and  still  to  busy  her  and  keep  her  warm  with  exer- 
cise, rather  than  in  hope  of  help  from  her,  he  instructed 
her  to  stand  with  her  face  to  the  bows,  and  push  with 
the  oar  as  she  had  seen  him  pushing. 

He  expected  very  little  from  this;  but  Tilda  some- 
how caught  the  knack  after  a  few  strokes,  and  for  half 
a  mile  it  helped  them  greatly.  By  this  time  they  were 
both  warm  enough,  but  desperately  tired.  So  far  as 
they  could  judge,  half  of  the  distance  was  accomplished. 
They  could  certainly  not  work  back  against  the  breeze 
blowing  more  and  more  freshly  off  the  land. 

328 


THE  VOYAGE 

With  a  little  steering  on  the  boy's  part  they  might 
even  have  trusted  to  this  breeze  to  carry  them  the  rest 
of  the  way,  had  it  not  been  for  the  ebb  tide.  This,  too, 
had  steadily  increased  in  strength,  and  now,  unless  a 
miracle  happened,  would  sweep  them  far  to  the  west- 
ward of  their  goal.  Hitherto  they  had  been  working 
their  oars  one  on  each  side  of  the  boat.  Now  Tilda 
shifted  hers  across,  and  they  pushed  together;  but  all 
in  vain.  The  tide  steadily  forced  them  sideways.  They 
were  drifting  past  the  westernmost  end  of  the  Island, 
and  the  Island  still  lay  more  than  a  mile  off. 

For  the  next  ten  minutes  neither  spoke;  and  it  may 
stand  to  Tilda's  credit  that  she  uttered  no  reproach  at  all. 
At  slow  intervals  she  lifted  the  oar  and  pushed  with  it; 
but  she  had  none  of  the  boy's  native  instinct  for  manag- 
ing it,  and  her  strokes  grew  feebler.  At  length  she  lifted 
the  heavy  shaft  a  little  way,  and  let  it  fall  with  a  thud  on 
the  gunwale.  She  could  do  no  more,  and  the  face  she 
turned  to  him  in  the  moonlight  was  white  with  fatigue. 

"I  just%can't,"  she  panted.    "It's  dead  beat  I  am." 

"Lie  down,"  he  commanded,  pointing  to  the  bottom 
boards.    "Here — take  my  coat " 

He  picked  his  jacket  up  from  the  stern-sheets  and 
tossed  it  to  her.  His  face  was  white  and  wearied  almost 
as  hers,  yet,  strange  to  say,  quite  cheerful  and  confi- 
dent, although  patently  every  second  now  was  driving 
the  boat  down  Channel,  and  wider  of  its  goal. 

For  a  moment  it  appeared  that  she  would  resist. 

329 


TRUE  TILDA 

But,  as  she  caught  the  coat,  weakness  overcame  her, 
her  knees  gave  way,  and  she  dropped  in  a  huddled 
heap.  'Dolph  ran  to  her  with  a  sharp  whine,  and  fell 
to  licking  the  hand  and  wrist  that  lay  inert  across  the 
thwart.  The  touch  of  his  tongue  revived  her,  and  by 
and  by  she  managed  to  reach  out  and  draw  his  warm 
body  close  to  her,  where  he  was  content  to  lie,  reas- 
sured by  the  beating  of  her  heart. 

"That's  right!" 

The  boy  spread  his  jacket  over  her,  and  went  aft 
again.  He  did  not  resume  his  paddling,  for  this  indeed 
was  plainly  useless.  Already  on  his  right  hand  the 
Island  was  slipping,  or  seemed  to  be  slipping,  away 
into  darkness.  But  he  did  not  lose  it,  for  after  a  while 
the  climbing  moon  stood  right  above  it,  linking  it  to 
the  boat  by  a  chain  of  light  that  rippled  and  wavered 
as  if  to  mock  him. 

But  he  was  not  mocked.  He  had  faith  all  the  while. 
He  longed  for  the  secret  by  which  that  shining  chain 
could  be  hauled  upon,  by  which  to  follow  up  that  glit- 
tering pathway;  but  he  never  doubted.  By  whatever 
gods  might  be,  he  had  been  brought  thus  far,  and  now 
sooner  or  later  the  last  miracle  was  bound  to  happen. 
He  had  been  foolish  to  struggle  so,  and  to  wear  Tilda 
out.    He  would  sit  still  and  wait. 

And  while  he  sat  there  and  waited  he  began,  of  a 
sudden  and  at  unawares,  to  sing  to  himself.  It  was 
the  same  tuneless  chant  that  had  taken  possession  of 

330 


THE  VOYAGE 

him  by  Harvington-on-Avon ;  but  more  instant  now 
and  more  confident,  breaking  from  him  now  upon  the 
open  sea,  with  moon  and  stars  above  him.  Tilda  did 
not  hear  it,  for  she  slept.  He  himself  was  hardly  con- 
scious of  it.  His  thoughts  were  on  the  Island,  on  the 
miracle  that  was  going  to  happen.  He  did  not  know 
that  it  had  already  begun  to  happen ;  that  the  tide  was 
already  slackening;  nor,  had  he  marked  it,  would  he 
have  understood.  For  almost  an  hour  he  sang  on,  and 
so  slipped  down  in  the  stern-sheets  and  slept. 

By  and  by,  while  he  slept,  the  tide  reached  its  ebb 
and  came  stealing  back,  drawing  with  it  a  breeze  from 
the  south-west. 

He  awoke  to  a  sound  which  at  first  he  mistook  for 
the  cawing  of  rooks — there  had  been  many  rooks  in  the 
trees  beyond  the  wall  of  Holy  Innocents,  between  it 
and  the  Brewery.  But,  gazing  aloft,  he  saw  that  these 
were  sea-gulls,  wheeling  and  mewing  and  making  a 
mighty  pother.  And  then — O  wonder! — as  he  rubbed 
his  eyes  he  looked  up  at  a  tall  cliff,  a  wall  of  rock  rising 
sheer,  and  a  good  hundred  feet  from  its  base  where  the 
white  water  was  breaking.  The  boat  had  drifted  almost 
within  the  back  draught,  and  it  was  to  warn  him  that 
the  gulls  were  calling. 

"The  Island!    The  Island!" 

He  caught  up  his  oar  and  called  to  Tilda.  She 
struggled  up  sleepily,  and  gasped  at  the  sight. 

331 


TRUE  TILDA 

"You  must  take  an  oar  and  help! "  he  called.  "There 
must  be  a  landing  near,  if  we  work  her  round  the 
point " 

And,  sure  enough,  around  the  point  they  opened 
a  small  cove,  running  inward  to  a  narrow  beach 
of  shingle.  A  grassy  gully  wound  up  from  the  head 
of  the  cove,  broadening  as  it  trended  to  the  left, 
away  from  the  tall  rocks  of  the  headland;  and  at 
the  sight  of  this  'Dolph  began  barking  furiously, 
scaring  fresh  swarms  of  sea-birds  from  their  roosting 
ledges. 

They  were  in  quiet  water  here,  and  in  less  than  two 
minutes — the  boy  steering — the  boat's  stem  grated 
softly  on  the  shingle  and  took  ground.  'Dolph  sprang 
ashore  at  once,  but  the  children  followed  with  some 
diflBculty,  for  they  were  cold  and  stiff,  and  infinitely 
weary  yet.  It  seemed  to  them  that  they  had  reached 
a  new  world :  for  a  strange  light  filled  the  sky  and  lay 
over  the  sea;  a  light  like  the  sheen  upon  gray  satin, 
curiously  compounded  of  moonlight  and  dawn;  a  light 
in  which  the  grass  shone  a  viv  d  green,  but  all  else  was 
dim  and  ghostly. 

Scarcely  knowing  what  they  did,  they  staggered  up 
the  beach  a  little  way,  and  flung  themselves  down  on 
the  shingle. 

Two  hours  passed  before  Arthur  Miles  awoke.  The 
sun  had  climbed  over  the  low  cliff  to  the  eastward  of  the 

332 


THE  VOYAGE 

cove,  and  shone  on  his  Hds.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his 
feet  were  lying  in  water. 

So  indeed  they  were,  for  the  tide  had  risen  and  was 
running  around  his  ankles.  But  while  he  sat  up,  won- 
dering at  this  new  marvel,  Tilda  gave  a  cry  and  pointed. 

The  boat  had  vanished. 


333 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


THE    ISLAND 


"  Be  not  afraid;  the  isle  is  full  of  noises. 
Sounds  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not." 

— The  Tempest. 

"Well,"  said  Tilda  dolefully,  "I  guess  that  about 
setdes  us!" 

The  boy,  his  hands  thrust  into  his  breeches'  pockets, 
stared  over  the  sea  for  a  while. 

"I  don't  see  that  it  matters  much,"  he  answered  at 
length,  withdrawing  his  gaze.  "You  know  well  enough 
we  could  never  have  worked  her  back  again." 

"Oh,  indeed?  And  'ow  are  we  goin'  to  pick  up  our 
vittles?  I  don't  know  what  you  feel  like,  but  I  could 
do  with  breakfast  a'ready." 

"Perhaps  'Dolph  can  catch  us  a  rabbit,"  he  sug- 
gested hopefully  after  a  pause.  "I  heard  Roger  say 
last  night  that  Holmness  swarmed  with  rabbits," 

"Rabbits?"  said  Tilda  with  scorn.  "D'  yer  know 
'ow  to  skin  one  if  we  caught  'im  ?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  he  confessed. 

"And  when  he's  skinned,  there's  the  cookin';  and 
we  'aven't  so  much  as  a  box  of  matches.  .  .  .  That's 
the  worst  of  boys,  they're  so  unpractical." 

334 


THE  ISLAND 

"Well,  then,  we  can  hunt  for  gulls'  eggs." 

"That's  better;  if,"  she  added  on  an  afterthought, 
"gulls  'appen  to  lay  eggs  at  this  time  of  year — which 
I'll  bet  they  don't." 

"Look  here,"  said  the  boy  severely,  "we  haven't 
searched  yet.  What's  the  use  of  giving  in  before  we've 
tried  f  Nobody  starves  on  the  Island,  I  tell  you;  and 
— and  I  can't  bear  your  talking  in  this  way.  It  isn't 
like  you " 

"I  can't  'elp  it,"  owned  poor  Tilda  with  a  dry 
sob. 

" — breaking  down,"  he  continued,  "just  when  we've 
reached,  and  all  the  rest  is  going  to  happen  just  as  the 
book  says." 

"That's  likely!" 

"It's  certain."  He  pulled  out  the  tattered,  coverless 
volume.  "Why,  I  do  beUeve" — he  said  it  with  a  kind 
of  grave  wonder — "you're  hankering  after  that  silly 
cottage!" 

"Of  course  I  am,"  she  confessed  defiantly,  for  he 
exasperated  her.  "We'd  promised  to  ride  over  an'  see 
Miss  Sally  this  afternoon,  an'  I  wanted  to  spend  the 
'ole  mornin'  learnin'  'ow  to  be  a  lady.  ...  I  don't  get 
too  much  time  for  these  little  things." 

The  protest  was  weak  enough,  and  weakly  uttered. 
LTntil  the  moment  of  embarking  on  this  expedition, 
Tilda  had  been  throughout  their  wanderings  always 
and  consciously  the  leader — her  will  the  stronger,  hers 

335 


TRUE  TILDA 

to  initiate  and  to  guide.  But  now  he  stuck  his  hands 
deeper  into  his  pockets. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  he  replied;  "but  you  can't 
get  to  Miss  Sally's  to-day.  So  who's  unpractical  now  ? 
Let's  find  the  cave  first,  and  have  breakfast;  and  then, 
if  you're  tired  of  exploring,  you  can  sit  on  cushions  all 
day,  and  read  your  book  and  learn  how  to  be  a  princess 
— which  is  ever  so  much  higher  than  an  ordinary  lady." 

"Cave?  Wot  cave?  Wot  breakfast?  Wot  cush- 
ions? Oh,  I  do  believe,  Arthur  Miles,  you've  gone 
stark  starin'  mad!" 

"Why,"  he  reasoned  with  her,  "on  a  seashore  like 
this  there  are  bound  to  be  caves;  the  only  trouble  will 
be  to  find  the  right  one.  And  as  for  breakfast,  it  was 
you  that  talked  about  it  just  now." 

His  persistence,  his  gentleness,  the  careful  lucidity 
of  his  craze  drove  her  fairly  beside  herself. 

"Oh,"  she  cried  again,  "if  you  ain't  mad,  then  I 
must  be,  or  elst  I'm  sickenin'  for  it!  It  don't  much 
matter,  any'ow.  We  got  to  starve  'ere  an'  die,  an'  the 
sooner  the  better." 

She  walked  across  the  beach  to  a  smooth  slab  of  rock 
and  seated  herself  sullenly,  with  her  eyes  on  the  distant 
mainland.  They  were  misty  with  tears  of  anger,  of 
despair.  But  he  could  not  see  them,  for  she  had  reso- 
lutely turned  her  back  on  him.  Had  she  broken  down 
— had  she  uttered  one  sob  even — the  boy  would  have 
run  to  her  side.    As  it  was,  he  gazed  at  her  sorrowfully. 

336 


THE  ISLAND 

.  .  .  She  had  lost  her  temper  again,  and  it  spoiled 
everything.  But  the  spell  of  the  Island  was  on  him. 
Above,  in  the  sunlight,  the  green  gully  wound  upward 
and  inland,  inviting  him ;  and  here  on  the  shingle  at  his 
feet  sat  'Dolph  and  looked  up  at  him,  with  eyes  that 
appealed  for  a  ramble.  The  dog's  teeth  chattered,  and 
small  suppressed  noises  worked  in  his  throat. 

"Very  well,"  called  the  boy,  "I  am  going,  and  you 
can  sit  there  or  follow,  as  you  like." 

He  swung  on  his  heel  and  set  forth,  'Dolph  scam- 
pering ahead  and  barking  so  wildly  that  the  noise  of  it 
scared  the  birds  again  in  flock  after  flock  from  their 
ledges. 

On  the  ridge  the  boy  halted  for  a  moment  and  looked 
down.  But  Tilda  sat  stubbornly  on  her  rock,  still  with 
her  back  turned. 

She  had  pulled  out  her  book,  the  Lady's  Vade- 
Mecum,  but  only  for  a  pretence.  She  did  not  in  the 
least  want  to  read,  nor  could  her  eyes  just  now  have 
distinguished  a  word  of  the  text.  She  was  wholly 
miserable;  and  yet,  curiously  enough,  after  the  first 
minute  her  misery  did  not  rest  on  despair,  or  at  any 
rate  not  consciously.  She  was  wretched  because  the 
boy  had  broken  away  and  gone  without  her,  and 
'Dolph  with  him— 'Dolph,  her  own  dog.  They  were 
ungrateful.  .  .  .  Had  not  everything  gone  right  so  long 
as  they  had  obeyed  her?    While  now—    They  would 

337 


TRUE  TILDA 

find  out,  of  course.  Even  Arthur  Miles  would  begin  to 
feel  hungry  after  a  while,  and  then — 'Dolph  might  keep 
going  for  a  time  on  rabbits,  though  as  a  circus  dog  he 
was  not  clever  at  sport. 

Yes,  she  had  a  right  to  be  indignant.  She  had  lost 
command  for  a  moment,  and  Arthur  Miles  had  straight- 
way led  her  into  this  trap.  .  .  .  This  was  all  very  well, 
but  deep  down  beneath  the  swellings  of  indignation 
there  lurked  a  thought  that  gradually  surmounted  them, 
working  upward  until  it  sat  whispering  in  her  ear. 
.  ,  .  They  were  in  a  tight  place,  no  doubt,  .  .  .  but 
was  she  behaving  well  ?  Now  that  the  mess  was  made 
and  could  not  be  unmade,  where  was  the  pluck — 
where  was  even  the  sense — of  sitting  here  and  sulking  ? 
Had  she  stuck  it  out,  why  then  at  the  end  she  could  have 
forgiven  him,  and  they  would  have  died  together.  .  .  . 
She  stared  forlornly  at  the  book,  and  a  ridiculous 
mocking  sentence  stared  back  at  her:  "It  is  often  sur- 
prising into  what  tasty  breakfast  dishes  the  cunning 
housewife  will  convert  the  least  promising  materials." 
In  a  gust  of  temper  she  caught  up  the  book  and  hurled 
it  from  her. 

And  yet  .  .  .  with  all  these  birds  about,  there  must 
surely  be  eggs.  She  had  not  a  notion  how  gulls'  eggs 
tasted.  Raw  eggs!  they  would  certainly  be  nasty; 
but  raw  eggs,  after  all,  will  support  life.  Moreover,  de- 
liverance might  come,  and  before  long.  The  Tossells, 
when  they  found  the  boat  missing,  would  start  a  search, 

338 


THE  ISLAND 

and  on  the  Island  there  might  be  some  means  of  signal- 
ling. How  could  she  be  forgiven,  or  forgive  herself,  if 
the  rescuers  arrived  to  find  Arthur  Miles  dead  and  her- 
self alive  ? 

With  that  a  dreadful  apprehension  seized  her,  and 
she  stood  erect,  listening.  .  .  .  She  had  let  him  go 
alone,  into  Heaven  knew  what  perils.  He  was  search- 
ing along  the  cliffs,  searching  for  a  cave,  and  very  likely 
for  gulls'  eggs  on  the  way.  .  .  .  What  easier  than  to  slip 
and  break  his  neck  ?  She  listened — listened.  But  the 
sound  of  'Dolph's  barking  had  long  ago  died  away. 
.  .  .  Oh,  if  he  were  dead,  and  she  must  search  the 
Island  alone  for  him! 

Poor  child!  for  the  moment  her  nerve  deserted  her. 
With  a  strangling  sob  she  ran  toward  the  beach  head, 
and  began  to  clamber  up  the  low  cliff  leading  to  the 

gully. 

"Til-da!    Hi!    Til-da!" 

From  the  ledge  of  the  cliff  she  stared  up,  and  with 
another  sob.  High  on  the  ridge  that  closed  the  gully 
stood  Arthur  Miles,  safe  and  sound.  He  was  waving 
both  arms. 

"Fve  found  it!"  he  cried. 

"Found  wot?" 

"The  House."  He  came  running  down  to  meet  her 
as  she  scrambled  her  way  up  the  gully.  "It's  not  a 
Cave,  but  a  House."  They  met,  both  panting.  "You 
were  right,  after  all,"  he  announced,  and  in  a  voice 

339 


TRUE  TILDA 

that  shook  with  excitement.  He  had  forgotten  their 
quarrel;  he  had  no  room  for  remembrance  of  it;  sheer 
joy  filled  him  so  full.  "It's  not  a  Cave,  but  a  House; 
and  with  such  things  to  eat!" 

"Things  to  eat?"  she  echoed  dully,  and  for  an  in- 
stant her  heart  sank  again  at  the  suspicion  that  after  all 
he  was  mad,  and  here  was  another  proof  of  it.  But  her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  something  he  held  out  in  his  hand. 
"What's  that  you've  got?" 

"Marmalade — real  marmalade!  And  a  spoon  too — 
there  are  heaps  of  spoons  and  cups  and  glasses,  and  a 
fire  ready  laid.  And — see  here — biscuits!"  He  pro- 
duced a  handful  from  his  pocket.  "I  brought  these 
things  along  because  you  said  you  were  hungry." 

Still  incredulous,  distrusting  her  eyes,  Tilda  watched 
him  dip  out  a  small  spoonful  of  marmalade  and  spread 
it  on  the  biscuit.  She  took  it  and  ate,  closing  her  eyes. 
The  taste  was  heavenly. 

"Oh,  Arthur  Miles,  where  are  we?" 

"Why,  on  the  Island.  Didn't  I  tell  you  it  was  going 
to  be  all  right?" 

He  said  it  in  mere  elation,  without  a  hint  of  reproach. 

"I'm  so  sorry." 

"Sorry?  What  is  there  to  be^sorry  about?  Come 
along." 

They  climbed  the  turfy  slope  in  silence,  Tilda  too 
deep  in  amaze  for  speech.  By  and  by  she  asked  irrele- 
vantly : 

340 


THE  ISLAND 

"Where  is 'Dolph?" 

"Eh?  'Dolph?  He  was  with  me  five  minutes  ago. 
Off  chasing  rabbits,  I  expect.  He  has  missed  catching 
about  two  dozen  aheady." 

"Isn't  that  his  bark  ?    Listen  .  .  .  away  to  the  right." 

They  stood  still  for  a  while. 

"Sounds  like  it,"  said  the  boy;  "and  yet  not  exactly 
like." 

"It's  'Dolph,  and  he's  in  some  sort  of  trouble. 
That's  not  'is  usual  bark." 

"We'd  best  see  what  it  is,  I  suppose,  and  fetch  him 
along."  Arthur  Miles  struck  aside  from  the  line  they 
had  been  following,  and  moved  after  the  sound,  not 
without  reluctance.  "It  may  be  only  a  vision,"  he 
said  gravely.  "Remember  the  hounds  that  ran  after 
Caliban  and  the  others." 

But  as  they  trended  toward  the  edge  of  the  cliffs  the 
barking  grew  louder,  and  was  recognisably  'Dolph's; 
and  so  they  came  to  a  wide  shelving  amphitheatre  of 
turf  overgrown  with  furze  and  blackthorn.  It  curved 
almost  as  smoothly  as  the  slope  of  a  crater,  and  shelved 
to  a  small  semicircular  bay.  There,  on  the  edge  of  the 
tide,  danced  'Dolph  yelping;  and  there,  knee-deep  in 
water,  facing  him  with  lowered  head,  stood  a  magnifi- 
cent stag — yes,  the  stag  of  yesterday!  When  Arthur 
Miles  caught  at  Tilda's  arm  and  proclaimed  this,  at 
first  she  doubted.  But  he  pointed  to  the  antlers,  glint- 
ing bright  in  the  sunshine.    He  did  not  know  the  names 

341 


TRUE  TILDA 

for  them,  but  whereas  the  left  antler  bore  brow,  bay, 
tray,  and  three  on  top,  the  top  of  the  right  antler,  by 
some  malformation,  was  not  divided  at  all,  and  even 
a  child  could  see  this  and  guess  it  to  be  unusual.  He 
was  a  noble  stag,  nevertheless.  The  sun  shone  down 
on  his  russet-gold  flanks  as  he  stood  there  fronting  the 
dog  with  his  deadly  brow  points.  And  'Dolph  kept  to 
the  edge  of  the  water,  leaping  forward  a  little  and  anon 
leaping  back,  and  at  each  leap  emitting  a  futile  yelp. 

The  children  stared,  wondering  how  he  could  have 
driven  so  noble  a  quarry;  until,  as  Arthur  Miles  called 
down,  he  lifted  his  head  and  gazed  up  at  them  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  turned  slowly,  as  it  were  disdain- 
fully, and  they  divined  the  truth — that  the  long  swim 
of  yesterday  had  broken  his  gallant  strength,  and  he 
had  come  down  to  the  beach  to  die.  He  turned  and 
lurched  heavily  down  into  deep  water,  laid  himself 
gently  afloat,  and  struck  out  as  if  heading  for  the  main. 
But  the  main  and  his  own  heathery  moors  lay  far  dis- 
tant, a  blue-gray  line  in  the  haze  to  the  southward. 
Perhaps  his  spirit  regained  them  as  his  body  slowly 
sank.  The  children  watched  it  sink  until  only  the  ant- 
lers showed  above  water  like  a  forked  bough  adrift  on 
the  tideway.  They  drifted  so  for  a  few  seconds;  then 
dipped  out  of  sight,  and  were  gone. 

The  children  stood  for  a  full  minute  gazing  at  the 
water  where  he  had  disappeared.  Then  Arthur  Miles 
whistled  to  'Dolph,  who  came  bounding  up  the  slope, 

342 


THE  ISLAND 

and  together  all  three  struck  inland  again,  but  in 
silence.    They  were  awed  by  the  Island  and  its  wonders. 

The  Island,  as  they  climbed  to  its  grassy  chine, 
gradually  revealed  itself  as  a  hill  of  two  peaks,  united 
by  a  long  saddle-back.  The  most  of  this  upland  con- 
sisted of  short  turf,  with  here  and  there  a  patch  of 
stones.  In  all  the  prospect  was  no  single  tree,  scarcely 
a  furze-bush  even — the  furze  grew  only  on  the  southern 
slopes,  low  down;  and  Tilda  strained  her  eyes  vainly 
for  sight  of  the  House. 

But  in  the  very  dip  of  the  saddle  was  a  gully,  much 
like  the  one  by  which  they  had  ascended,  but  steeper 
and  dipping  to  the  north.  Before  they  reached  it, 
before  she  could  detect  it  even,  Arthur  Miles  pointed 
to  where  it  lay;  and  they  had  scarcely  turned  aside 
to  follow  it  before  a  chimney — a  genuine  red-brick 
chimney — rose   into  sight  above   the  dying  bracken. 

A  minute  later,  and  she  was  looking  down  on  a  broad 
slated  roof,  on  a  building  of  one  story,  stuck  here  in  a 
notch  of  the  gully,  and  in  the  lee  of  almost  every  wind 
that  could  blow.  Its  front  faced  her  as  she  descended. 
It  had  a  deep,  red-tiled  veranda,  and  under  the  veran- 
da a  line  of  windows,  close-shuttered  all  but  one. 
This  one  stood  next  to  the  front  door,  on  the  right. 

The  boy,  still  leading,  ran  down  the  sloping  path  to 
the  door,  and  lifted  the  latch.  Tilda  halted  just  within 
the  threshold,  and  looked  about  her. 

The  kitchen,  on  which  the  door  opened,  was  well  fur- 

343 


TRUE  TILDA 

nished,  with  an  open  hearth,  and  a  fire  laid  ready  there, 
and  even  a  row  of  saucepans  twinkling  above  the  man- 
tel-shelf. 

Arthur  Miles  waved  a  hand  around,  and  pointed  to 
another  door  at  the  end  of  the  kitchen. 

"There's  a  heap  of  rooms  in  there.  I  didn't  stay 
to  search.    But  look  at  this! " 

He  unhitched  a  card  which  hung  above  the  mantel- 
shelf.   On  it  was  written: 

The  'provisions  here  are  left  for  any  mariners 
who  may  find  themselves  shipwrecked  on  this  Is- 
land. All  such  are  welcome  to  make  use  of  what 
accommodation  they  find  here.  Casual  visitors 
will  kindly  respect  the  intention  with  which  this 
hxmse  is  kept  open,  and  will  leave  the  place  strictly 
as  they  find  it. 

{Signed)        Miles  Chandon,  Bart. 

From  the  next  room  came  the  sound  of  a  window 
opened  and  a  shutter  thrown  wide,  and  Tilda's  voice 
announced : 

"Well,  I  never!    Beds!" 

"Beds?" 

"Beds— and  sheets— and  blankets."  Tilda  reap- 
peared in  the  doorway.  "A  'ole  reel  'ouse!  But  why? 
— and  'ow  in  the  world  ?" 

Arthur  Miles  held  out  the  card. 

"It's  for  sailors  shipwrecked  here." 

Tilda  studied  the  notice. 

344 


THE  ISLAND 

"And  we're  shipwrecked!  Well,  if  this  ain't  the 
loveliest.    A  reel  'ouse,  with  reel  beds  an'  sorsepans!" 

Her  jaw  dropped. 

"An'  I  flung  that  blessed  book  away  just  as  it  was 
tellin'  about  breakfast  dishes!" 


345 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


GLASSON   IN   CHASE 


"Prospero:  Hey,  Mountain,  hey! 
Ariel :  Silver,  there  it  goes,  Silver ! " 

— The  Tempest. 

Like  most  men  of  fifty  or  thereabouts,  and  like  every 
man  who  finds  himself  at  that  age  a  bachelor  rector  of 
a  remote  country  parish,  Parson  Chichester  had  col- 
lected a  number  of  small  habits  or  superstitions — call 
them  which  you  will ;  they  are  the  moss  a  sensible  stone 
gathers  when  it  has  ceased  rolling.  He  smoked  a  pipe 
in  the  house  or  when  he  walked  abroad,  but  a  Manila 
cheroot  (he  belonged  to  the  age  of  cheroots)  when  he 
rode  or  drove;  and  he  never  rode  on  a  Sunday,  but 
either  walked  or  used  a  dog-cart.  Also  by  habit — or 
again,  if  you  please,  superstition — ^he  preached  one 
sermon,  not  necessarily  a  new  one,  every  week. 

To-day  he  had  broken  through  this  last  custom,  but 
observed  the  others.  After  an  abbreviated  Morning  Ser- 
vice he  lit  a  cheroot,  climbed  into  his  dog-cart,  and  drove 
off  toward  Meriton  at  a  brisk  pace,  being  due  to  perform 
his  errand  there  and  report  himself  at  Culvercoombe 
by  three  in  the  afternoon.     For  luncheon  he  carried 

346 


GLASSON  IN  CHASE 

a  box  of  sandwiches  and  a  flask  of  whisky  and  water. 
His  horse — a  tall,  free-stepping  bay,  by  name  Archdea- 
con,—was,  properly  speaking,  a  hunter,  and  the  Par- 
son, in  driving  as  in  riding  him,  just  rattled  him  along, 
letting  him  feel  the  rein  but  seldom,  or  never  using  it  to 
interfere  with  his  pace. 

The  entrance  gates  at  Meriton  are  ancient  and 
extremely  handsome,  wrought  of  the  old  iron  of  East 
Sussex,  and  fashioned,  somewhere  in  the  mid-eigh- 
teenth century,  after  an  elaborate  Florentine  pattern- 
tradition  says,  by  smiths  imported  from  Italy.  The 
pillars  are  of  weather-stained  marble,  and  four  in  num- 
ber, the  two  major  ones  surrounded  by  antlered  stags, 
the  two  minor  by  cressets  of  carved  flame,  symbolising 
the  human  soul,  and  the  whole  illustrating  the  singular 
motto  of  the  Chandons,  "As  the  hart  desireth."  On 
either  side  of  the  gates  is  a  lodge  in  the  Ionic  style,  with 
a  pillared  portico,  and  the  lodges  are  shadowed  by  two 
immense  cedars,  the  marvel  of  the  country-side. 

But  to-day  the  lodges  stood  empty,  with  closed 
doors  and  drawn  blinds — the  doors  weather-stained, 
the  blinds  dingy  with  dust.  Weeds  overgrew  the  bases 
of  the  pillars,  and  grass  had  encroached  upon  all  but 
a  narrow  ribbon  scored  by  wheel  ruts  along  the  noble 
drive.  Parson  Chichester  pulled  up,  and  was  about  to 
dismount  and  open  the  gates  for  himself,  when  he 
caught  sight  of  a  stranger  coming  afoot  down  the 
drive;  and  the  stranger,  at  the  same  moment  catching 

347 


TRUE  TILDA 

sight  of  the  dog-cart,  waved  a  hand  and  mended  his 
pace  to  do  this  small  service. 

"Much  obliged  to  you,"  nodded  Parson  Chichester 
pleasantly,  after  a  sharp  and  curious  scrutiny.  For 
the  stranger  was  a  parson  too  by  his  dress — a  tall, 
elderly  man  with  gray  side-whiskers  and  a  hard,  square 
mouth  like  the  slit  of  a  letter-box.  The  clergy  are 
always  curious  about  one  another  by  a  sort  of  free- 
masonry, and  Parson  Chichester  knew  every  beneficed 
clergyman  in  the  diocese  and  most  of  the  unbeneficed. 
But  who  could  this  be  ?  And  what  might  be  his  busi- 
ness at  Meriton,  of  all  places  ? 

The  stranger  acknowledged  his  thanks  with  a  slight 
wave  of  the  hand. 

"A  fine  day.    I  am  happy  to  have  been  of  service." 

It  was  curious.  Each  paused  for  a  second  or  so  as  if 
on  the  point  of  asking  a  question;  each  waited  for  the 
other  to  speak;  then,  as  nothing  came  of  it,  each  bowed 
again,  and  thus  awkwardly  they  parted. 

Parson  Chichester  drove  on  with  a  pucker  between 
the  eyebrows  and  a  humorous  twitch  in  the  corners  of 
his  mouth.  So  when  two  pedestrians,  strangers,  meet 
and  politely  attempt  to  draw  aside,  but  with  misdirected 
chass'es  that  leave  them  still  confronting  one  another, 
they  disengage  at  length  and  go  their  ways  between 
irritation  and  amusement. 

Meriton,  one  of  "the  stately  homes  of  England,"  is 
a  structure  in  the  Palladian  style,  injudiciously  built  on 

348 


GLASSON  IN  CHASE 

the  foundations  of  an  older  house  dating  from  the  fif- 
teenth century,  when  sites  were  chosen  for  the  sake  of 
a  handy  supply  of  water,  and  with  little  regard  to  view 
or  even  to  sunshine.  It  occupies  a  cup  of  the  hills,  is 
backed  by  a  dark  amphitheatre  of  evergreen  trees,  and 
looks  across  a  narrow  valley.  The  farther  slope  rises 
abruptly,  and  has  been  converted  into  a  park,  so  to 
speak,  against  its  will.  The  stream  that  flows  down 
the  valley  bottom  has  likewise  been  arrested  by  art  and 
forced  to  form  a  lake  with  a  swannery;  but  neither  lake 
nor  swannery  is  entirely  convincing.  It  was  not,  how- 
ever, its  architect's  fault  that  to  Parson  Chichester  the 
place  looked  much  more  stately  than  homelike,  since 
every  window  in  its  really  noble  fa9ade  was  shuttered 
and  sightless. 

The  great  entrance  porchway  lay  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  in  the  gloom  of  a  dripping  cliff.  Here  the  Par- 
son climbed  down  and  tugged  at  an  iron  bell-handle. 
The  bell  sounded  far  within  the  house,  and  was  an- 
swered pretty  promptly  by  the  butler,  a  grizzled,  ruddy- 
faced  man,  who  (it  was  understood)  had  followed  Sir 
Miles  out  of  the  Service,  and  carried  confirmation  of 
this  in  the  wrinkles  about  his  eyes — those  peculiar,  un- 
mistakable wrinkles  which  are  only  acquired  by  keep- 
ing look-out  in  many  a  gale  of  wind. 

"Ah?  Good  morning,  Matters!"  said  Parson  Chi- 
chester. "Sorry  to  disturb  you,  but  I've  driven  over 
to  ask  for  Sir  Miles's  address." 

349 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Certainly,  sir.  That's  curious  too,"  added  Mr. 
Matters  half  to  himself.  "His  address  .  .  .  yes,  to  be 
sure,  sir,  I'll  write  it  down  for  you.  But  you  must  let 
me  get  you  something  in  the  way  of  luncheon  after 
your  drive.  Sir  Miles  would  be  annoyed  if  you  went 
away  without — though,  the  house  being  closed,  you'll 
pardon  deficiencies.    As  for  the  horse,  sir " 

"I  hope  I  know  how  to  stable  him,"  struck  in  the 
Parson.  "But  I  won't  stay — thank  you  all  the  same. 
I've  eaten  my  sandwiches  on  the  road,  and  couldn't 
make  a  second  meal  if  you  paid  me.  What's  curious, 
by  the  way?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir?" 

"I  am  quoting  you.    'Curious,'  you  said." 

"Ah,  to  be  sure,  sir.  Well,  less  than  half  an  hour 
ago  there  was  a  stranger  here — a  clergyman,  too — 
putting  the  very  same  question." 

"I  met  him  at  the  lodge  gates.  Oldish  man,  gray 
whiskers,  mouth  like  a  trap." 

"That's  him,  sir." 

"It's  a  coincidence,  certainly.  The  more  remark- 
able, I  guess,  because  Meriton  nowadays  is  not  much 
infested  with  parsons.  Wonder  who  he  was,  and 
what  he  wanted  ?" 

"He  would  not  give  his  name,  sir.  He  wanted  the 
address." 

"You  gave  it  to  him?" 

"I  did  not,  sir." 

350 


GLASSON  IN  CHASE 

"Was  he  annoyed?" 

"He  was,  sir;  very  much  annoyed.  He  said  words 
to  himself,  which  unless  I'm  mistaken " 

Matters  paused. 

Parson  Chichester  laughed. 

"  If  you  had  refused  me,  you'd  have  heard  'em  quite 
distinctly." 

"Yes,  sir.  The  address  is,  Grand  Hotel,  Monte 
Carlo.  I  heard  from  Sir  Miles  only  yesterday.  You 
understand,  sir,  that  as  a  rule  he  does  not  choose  for 
every  one  to  know  his  movements." 

"I  do,  and  am  obliged  by  your  confidence.  I  want 
it  for  Miss  Sally  Breward;  and,  if  this  reassures  you, 
I  shall  give  it  to  her  and  to  no  one  else." 

"I  thank  you,  sir;  it  was  unnecessary.  But  I  may 
tell  you,  sir,  that  Sir  Miles  has  a  very  high  opinion  of 
Miss  Sally,  as  I  happen  to  know." 

"We  all  have,  Matters.  .  .  .  Well,  I  have  what 
I  came  for,  and  will  be  driving  back  to  Culvercoombe 
with  it.    So  good -day,  and  thank  you ! " 

"  I  thank  you,  sir." 

Mr.  Matters  bowed. 

Parson  Chichester  turned  Archdeacon,  and  put  him 
at  his  best  trotting  speed — by  a  single  hint  from  the 
reins,  no  whip  needed.  This  tune  he  had  to  descend 
and  open  the  lodge  gates  for  himself.  A  mile  and  a  half 
beyond  them  the  road  crossed  one  of  the  many  high 

'       351 


TRUE  TILDA 

brows  of  the  moor,  and  here  on  the  rise  he  discerned 
a  black-habited  figure  trudging  along  the  road  ahead. 

He  recognised  the  stranger  at  once,  and  reined  up 
as  he  overtook  him. 

" Good-day  again,  sir!    Can  I  offer  you  a  lift?" 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  the  stranger.  "  I  am  bound  for 
a  place  called  Culvercoombe." 

"Why,  so  am  I!    So  you  must  give  me  the  pleasure.' 

"You  are  exceedingly  kind." 

He  clambered  up,  not  very  skilfully,  and  the  dog- 
cart bowled  on  again. 

For  a  while  the  two  kept  silence.  Then  Parson 
Chichester  made  an  opening. 

"You  don't  belong  to  these  parts?"  he  asked. 

"No.  .  .  .  Pardon  my  curiosity,  but  are  you  a 
friend  of  Miss  Breward's?" 

"I  believe  she  would  allow  me  to  say  'yes.*  By  the 
way,  hereabouts  we  call  her  Miss  Sally.  Every  one 
does — even  the  butler  at  Meriton,  with  whom  I  was 
speaking  just  now." 

"  Indeed  ?  .  .  .  I  am  wondering  if  you  would  pres- 
ently add  to  your  kindness  by  giving  me  an  introduc- 
tion to  her  ?  Trust  me,"  he  went  on,  staring  down  the 
road  ahead  and  answering  Parson  Chichester's  quick 
glance  without  seeming  to  perceive  it,  "you  will  incur 
^o  responsibility.  I  am  not  a  mendicant  priest,  and 
only  ask  her  to  favour  me  with  an  address,  which  I 
believe  she  can  easily  give." 

352 


GLASSON  IN  CHASE 

"An  address?" 

The  stranger's  somewhat  grim  mouth  relaxed  a 
little  at  the  corners. 

"The  English  language,"  he  said,  "is  full  of  dis- 
tracting homonyms.  I  am  not  asking  her  for  a  sermon, 
but  to  be  directed  where  a  certain  gentleman  resides — 
at  present,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  abroad — where, 
for  instance,  a  letter  will  reach  him." 

"Sir  Miles  Chandon?" 

"Precisely.  You  have  hit  it.  .  .  .  But,  to  be  sure, 
you  were  talking  just  now  with  his  butler.  A  worthy 
fellow,  I  dare  say,  though  suspicious  of  strangers." 

Parson  Chichester  felt  pretty  much  of  a  fool,  and  the 
more  annoyed  because  unable  to  detect  anything  offen- 
sive in  the  tone  of  the  rebuke — if,  indeed,  a  rebuke  had 
been  implied. 

"Folk  in  these  parts  see  few  strange  faces,"  he  said 
lamely. 

"  It  was  the  kinder  of  you  to  offer  me  a  lift.  I  had 
heard,  by  the  way,  that  Sir  Miles's  butler  did  not  come 
from  these  parts,  but  was  a  much-travelled  man." 

"That  is  so." 

Mr.  Chichester  felt  that  he  was  getting  very  markedly 
the  worst  of  this  conversation,  and  decided  to  let  it 
drop.  But  just  as  he  had  arrived  at  this  decision  the 
stranger  faced  around  and  asked: 

"Perhaps  you  know  Sir  Miles's  present  address?" 

At  this  point-blank  question  Mr.  Chichester's  face 

353 


TRUE  TILDA 

grew  very  red  indeed.  He  had  brought  it  on  himself. 
Denial  was  useless. 

"Perhaps  I  do,"  he  answered.  "But  you  were  going 
to  ask  Miss  Sally  for  it,  and  we  will  leave  it  to  her." 

"Quite  right,"  the  stranger  assented.  "Here  is  my 
own  card,  though  it  will  convey  nothing  to  you." 

But  it  conveyed  a  great  deal.  Parson  Chichester 
reached  across  with  his  disengaged  right  hand,  took 
the  card,  and  read: 

The  Reverend  Purdie  J.  Glasson,  LL.D., 
Holy  Innocents^  Orphanage, 

Bursfield. 

The  words  danced  before  his  eyes.  Imagine  some 
unskilled  player  pitted  against  an  expert  at  cards, 
awake  at  one  moment  to  his  weakness,  and  the  next 
overwhelmingly  aware  that  his  opponent,  by  an  incred- 
ible blunder,  is  delivered  into  his  hands.  The  elation 
of  it  fairly  frightened  Mr.  Chichester,  and  he  so  far  for- 
got himself  as  to  take  up  his  whip  and  administer  a 
sharp  flick  on  Archdeacon's  shoulder — an  outrage 
which  the  good  horse,  after  an  instant  of  amazement, 
resented  by  a  creditable  attempt  to  bolt.  This  was 
probably  the  best  that  could  have  happened.  It  gave 
the  Parson  a  job  he  understood,  and  for  five  minutes 
effectually  prevented  his  speaking. 

They  had  almost  reached  the  entrance  gate  of  Cul- 
vercoombe  before  he  reduced  the  affronted  horse  to  a 
trot,  and  Doctor  Glasson,  who  had  been  clutching  the 

354 


GLASSON  IN  CHASE 

rail  of  the  dog-cart  in  acutest  physical  terror,  had  no 
nerve  as  yet  to  resume  the  conversation.  A  lodge- 
keeper  ran  out  and  opened  the  gate  (service  under  Miss 
Sally  was  always  alert),  and  they  rolled  smoothly  down 
the  well-gravelled  drive  through  an  avenue  of  yellow- 
ing sycamores. 

A  couple  of  aged  mastiff  bitches — mothers  in  their 
time,  and  now  great-grandmothers,  of  a  noble  race — 
lay  sunning  themselves  before  the  house  porch.  They 
recognised  the  Parson's  dog-cart  and  heaved  themselves 
up,  wagging  their  tails  to  welcome  a  respected,  if  rare, 
visitor;  but  growled  at  sight  of  his  companion.  Their 
names  were  Tryphena  and  Tryphosa. 

Parson  Chichester  alighted  and  rang  the  bell,  after 
handing  the  reins  to  Doctor  Glasson  with  an  apology. 

"I'll  get  the  groom  sent  round  in  a  moment,"  he 
explained,  and  to  the  butler  who  opened  the  door, 
"Miss  Sally  is  expecting  me,  eh.  Butts?" 

"In  the  yellow  drawing-room,  y'r  worship." 

The  Parson  was  a  magistrate,  and,  for  no  known 
reason.  Butts  always  addressed  him  as  such. 

"  Very  well,  I'll  find  my  way  to  her.  Send  some  one 
around  to  take  the  dog-cart,  and  as  soon  as  he  comes, 
take  this  gentleman  inside  until  your  mistress  rings. 
Understand?" 

"I  understand,  y'r  worship." 

"Then  be  as  brisk  as  you  can,  for  the  horse  is  fresh 
to-day." 

355 


TRUE  TILDA 

**  He  'as  aperiently  been  workin'  hisself  into  a  lather, 
/r  worship,"  said  Butts.  "Which  I  'ave  noticed,  sir, 
your  'abit — or,  as  I  may  say,  your  custom — of  bringin' 
'im  in  cool." 

But  Parson  Chichester  had  left  him,  and  was  making 
his  way  across  the  hall  to  the  yellow  drawing-room, 
which  he  entered  with  little  ceremony.  Miss  Sally  rose 
to  receive  him.  She  had  been  sitting  in  its  oriel  window 
with  a  small  table  before  her,  and  on  the  table  a  Bible. 
This  was  her  rule  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  and  every 
Sunday  after  luncheon  she  donned  a  pair  of  spectacles. 
Butts,  who  knew  her  habits  to  a  hair,  brought  the  spec- 
tacles once  a  week  and  laid  the  book  open  at  his  favour- 
ite passages.  For  aught  it  mattered,  he  might  have 
opened  it  upside-down. 

"You're  pretty  punctual,"  said  Miss  Sally.  "Before 
your  time,  if  anything." 

"Yes;  the  horse  bolted,  or  tried  to,"  Mr.  Chichester 
explained.    "  Guess  whom  I've  brought  with  me." 

"Not  Miles  Chandon?" 

"No;  he's  at  Monte  Carlo.  His  address,  the  Grand 
Hotel.    Guess  again." 

"  Don't  be  foolish  and  waste  time.  The  children  may 
be  arriving  at  any  minute." 

"You  must  keep  *em  out  of  the  way,  then." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I've  brought  him." 

" '  Him '  ?    You'll  excuse  me " 

356 


GLASSON  IN  CHASE 

"Glasson." 

"Glasson?"  Her  eyes  opened  wide.  "You've 
brought  Glasson  ?    Well,  I  must  say  you're  clever." 

"On  the  contrary,  I've  been  infernally  stupid. 
I  met  him  coming  down  the  drive  from  Meriton  He 
had  been  pumping  Matters  for  Sir  Miles's  present 
address — which  he  didn't  get.  What's  his  game,  do 
you  think?" 

"Blackmail." 

"That  crossed  my  mind,  too.  He  seems  a  deep  one, 
and  I  don't  like  his  looks." 

"You  are  sure  it  is  Glasson?" 

Parson  Chichester  produced  the  card,  badly  crum- 
pled, from  his  riding-glove.  Miss  Sally  pushed  her 
Sunday  spectacles  higher  on  her  brows  and  examined 
it  with  her  clear  eyes. 

"This,"  she  said,  "is  going  to  be  a  treat.  The  man 
cannot  possibly  have  guessed  that  the  children  are  in 
this  neighbourhood.  You  haven't  enlightened  him, 
I  hope?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  Mr.  Chichester  answered  indignandy. 

"Well,  you  said  a  moment  since  that  you'd  been  in- 
fernally stupid,  and  I  don't  yet  know  what  form  it 
took." 

"I  let  him  know  what  I'd  discovered — that  he  had 
been  pumping  Matters  for  Sir  Miles's  address." 

"There  is  no  harm  in  that.  He  can  have  the  address 
from  me  as  soon  as  he  likes." 

357 


TRUE  TILDA 

"But  surely  you  see  through  his  game?  He  has 
tracked  out  the  boy's  parentage,  and  he's  out  after 
blackmail." 

"To  be  sure  he  is;  and,  what's  more,  he's  going  to 
have  a  run  for  his  money.  What  on  earth  is  the  matter 
outside?" 

For  a  noise  of  furious  barking  had  broken  out  sud- 
denly, and,  as  she  spoke,  there  mingled  with  it  a  sound 
very  like  a  human  scream. 

Miss  Sally  hurried  out  to  the  hall,  the  Parson  close 
at  her  heels.  They  had  scarcely  crossed  the  threshold 
when  Doctor  Glasson  staggered  by  them  like  a  maniac, 
with  Tryphosa  hanging  on  to  his  clerical  skirts  and 
Tryphena  in  full  cry  behind.  Butts  brought  up  the 
rear  of  the  chase,  vainly  shouting  to  call  them  off. 

"Down,  Tryphosa!"  Miss  Sally  ran  in,  planted  a 
well-directed  kick  on  the  mastiff's  ribs,  caught  her  by 
the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  banged  her  ears.  "Back, 
you  brutes!" 

Catching  a  dog-whip  down  from  the  rack,  she  lashed 
and  drove  them  yelping;  while  Glasson  flung  himself 
on  a  couch  and  lay  panting,  with  a  sickly  yellow  face 
and  a  hand  pressed  to  his  heart. 

"Oh,  ma'am,  your  lady  dogs!" 

"'Bitches'  in  the  country,  Doctor  Glasson.  I  must 
apologise  for  them.  Butts,  bring  some  brandy  and 
water  to  the  drawing-room.  .  .  .  Not  bitten,  I  hope? 
If  the  skin's  broken  we  had  better  cauterise." 

358 


GLASSON  IN  CHASE 

Miss  Sally  confessed  afterward  that  she  would  have 
enjoyed  operating  on  the  man  with  a  red-hot  poker: 
"and  I'd  have  used  the  biggest  poker  in  the  house." 
But  Doctor  Glasson  arose,  felt  himself,  and  announced 
that  it  was  unnecessary. 

"Mr.  Chichester  tells  me  you  wish  for  Sir  Miles 
Chandon's  address.  He  was,  until  a  couple  of  days 
ago,  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  Monte  Carlo,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  is  there  yet." 

Doctor  Glasson 's  face  fell  somewhat. 

"  I  thank  you,"  he  murmured.    "  It  is  a  long  distance." 

"A  letter  will  reach  him  in  less  than  two  days." 

"Yes,"  said  Glasson,  and  said  no  more. 

"  But  a  letter  addressed  to  him  at  Meriton  would,  of 
course,  be  forwarded.  So  I  conclude  you  wish  to  see 
him  personally.  Are  you — pardon  the  question — a 
friend  of  his?" 

"Not  a  personal  friend,  ma'am.  I  came  to  see  him 
on  a  matter  of  business." 

"From  Bursfield,"  said  Miss  Sally,  with  a  glance  at 
the  card. 

It  was  a  superstition  with  Glasson  to  tell  the  truth 
about  trifles. 

"  From  Plymouth,  to  be  exact,  ma'am.  I  have  been 
indulging  in  a — er — brief  holiday." 

"Ah,"  thought  Miss  Sally  to  herself,  "researching, 
no  doubt!" 

Aloud  she  said- 

359 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Well,  I  am  sorry,  sir;  but  Monte  Carlo's  the  ad- 
dress, and  that's  all  I  can  do  for  you  except  to  offer 
you  some  refreshment,  and— yes,  let  me  see— you  are 
returning  to-night?" 

"As  speedily  as  possible,  ma'am," 

"Sunday  trains  are  awkward.  There  is  one  at  Fair 
Anchor  at  4.35,  and  after  that  no  other  until  the  7.12, 
which  picks  up  the  evening  mail  at  Taunton.  You  are 
on  foot,  I  understand,  and  will  certainly  not  catch  the 
first  unless  you  let  my  man  drive  you  over." 

Doctor  Glasson  was  evidently  anxious  to  get  away 
at  the  earliest  moment.  He  protested,  with  many 
thanks,  that  he  was  trespassing  on  her  kindness. 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Miss  Sally;  "and  you  shall  be  as 
comfortable  as  we  can  make  you  in  the  barouche.  Mr. 
Chichester,  would  you  mind  stepping  out  and  ringing 
them  up  at  the  stables,  while  Butts  is  bringing  the 
brandy?" 

The  Parson  guessed  that  she  was  sending  him  with 
a  purpose;  and  he  was  right,  for  he  had  scarcely  left 
the  room  when,  on  an  excuse,  she  followed  him. 

"Tossell  and  the  children  are  about  due.  This  man 
must  not  see  them,  of  course.  As  you  leave  the  stables 
you  go  up  on  the  Inistow  road  and  head  'em  off— keep 
'em  out  of  sight  until  the  barouche  is  past  the  cross- 
roads and  on  the  way  to  Fair  Anchor." 

He  nodded,  and  having  left  his  order  with  the  coach- 
man, climbed  by  a  footpath  to  a  rise  of  the  moor, 

360 


GLASSON  IN  CHASE 

whence  he  commanded  a  view  of  the  cross-roads  on  his 
right,  and  on  his  left  of  the  road  running  northward 
Hke  a  pale  ribbon  across  the  brown  heather.  Neither 
vehicle  nor  horseman  was  in  sight.  Nor,  though  he 
waited  more  than  half  an  hour,  did  any  appear  coming 
from  the  direction  of  Inistow. 

At  the  end  of  that  time,  however,  he  saw  the  barouche 
roll  past  the  cross-roads  toward  Fair  Anchor.  The 
coast  was  clear.  So,  wondering  a  little  at  the  farmer's 
delay,  he  wended  his  way  back  to  Culvercoombe.  To 
his  amazement,  in  the  hall  he  ran  against  Butts  carry- 
ing a  portmanteau,  and  at  the  same  moment  Miss  Sally 
issued  from  the  yellow  drawing-room  with  a  Bradshaw 
in  her  hand. 

"Where  are  the  children  ?"  she  asked. 

"Nowhere  in  sight." 

"That's  odd.  Tossell's  punctual  in  everything  as  a 
rule — rent  included.  Well,  I  must  leave  you  to  keep 
an  eye  on  them.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  anything  about 
Bursfield  ?  The  best  hotel  there,  for  instance  ?  I  see 
there  are  two  advertised  here.  The  Imperial — every- 
thing's Imperial  nowadays — with  a  night-porter  and  a 
lift — I  detest  lifts — never  use  'em — and  the  Grand  Cen- 
tral, family  and  commercial,  electric  light.  I  abomi- 
nate commercials,  but  they  know  how  to  feed.  Why 
the  deuce  can't  these  people  advertise  something  worth 
knowing?  Electric  light — who  wants  to  eat  overdone 
steaks  by  electricity?" 

361 


TRUE  TILDA 

"But,  my  dear  lady,  why  this  sudden  curiosity  about 
Bursfield  and  its  hotels?" 

"Because,  my  dear  man,  I'm  going  there,  to-night; 
by  the  7.12.  Butts  has  just  carried  my  portmanteau 
up-stairs." 

"Your  portmanteau?" 

"Yes;  I  don't  beheve  in  trunks  and  dress  boxes — 
my  things  will  bear  folding,  and  Humphreys" — mean- 
ing her  maid — "is  already  folding  'em.  Man,  don't 
stare.  I'm  going  to  have  the  time  of  my  life  at  Bursfield 
in  Glasson's  absence.  You  saw  Glasson  depart?  Well, 
he  didn't  tell;  but  you  may  pack  me  in  another  port- 
manteau if  he's  not  posting  off  to  Monte  Carlo." 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  he  won't  find  Miles  Chandon  there.  Because 
why?  Because  I've  written  out  this  telegram,  which 
I'll  trouble  you  to  send  as  soon  as  the  post-office  opens 
to-morrow.  Nuisance  there's  no  telegraphing  in  the 
country  on  Sundays.  I  thought  of  getting  a  porter  to 
despatch  it  for  me  at  Taunton ;  but  it  wouldn't  reach 
Monte  Carlo  until  some  unearthly  hour,  and  we've 
plenty  of  time.  Miles  Chandon  will  get  it  to-morrow, 
probably  just  as  Glasson  is  beginning  to  get  on  terms 
with  the  Channel  crossing.  He's  the  very  subject  for 
seasickness,  the  brute!  .  .  .  And  the  two  will  probably 
pass  one  another  at  some  time  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  while  I'm  sleeping  like  a  top  after  a  happy  day 
at  Bursfield." 

362 


GLASSON  IN  CHASE 

"You  count  on  Chandon's  coming?" 

"Here's  the  telegram:  'Return  Meriton  Wednesday 
at  latest.    Important.    Sally  Breward.'" 

"Will  that  fetch  him?" 

"Of  course  it  will.  Miles  Chandon  owes  me  some- 
thing, as  I  think  I  told  you,  and  is  a  gentleman  more- 
over." 

"Oh,  very  well,  I'll  send  it,  and  I  have  only  one  other 
question.  What  precisely  is  your  business  at  Bursfield  ?  " 

Miss  Sally  grinned. 

"Hay-making,"  she  answered,  "while  the  sun  shines 
— that  is  to  say,  in  Glasson's  absence.  I  propose  to 
make  a  considerable  deal  of  hay.  Something  will  de- 
pend on  Mr.  Hucks;  but  from  the  child's  account  of 
him,  I  build  great  hopes  on  Mr.  Hucks.  .  .  .  There's 
one  thing  more.  I've  sent  the  barouche  to  the  station. 
If  I  drive  my  own  cart  over  to  Fair  Anchor,  there's  no- 
body but  Butts  to  bring  it  back,  and  you  know  Butts's 
driving.  If  I  take  the  brown,  the  brown  '11  bolt  with 
him,  and  if  I  take  the  chestnut  filly  he'll  let  her  down. 

So  I  must  commandeer  you  and  Archdeacon." 

Accordingly  Parson  Chichester  drove  Miss  Sally 
over  to  the  station,  and  bestowed  her  comfortably  in 
the  7.12  up  train.  She  was  in  the  highest  spirits.  Hav- 
ing despatched  her  and  watched  the  train  out  of  sight, 
the  Parson  lit  his  lamps,  climbed  into  his  dog-cart 
again,  and  headed  Archdeacon  back  for  home. 

363 


TRUE  TILDA 

He  had  struck  the  Inistow  road,  when  his  ear  caught 
the  beat  of  hoofs  approaching  at  a  gallop  through  the 
darkness.  He  quartered  and  cried  hullo!  as  the  rider 
drew  close.  On  the  moors  it  was  unusual  to  meet  a 
rider  at  night;  nobody  rode  so  hard  unless  for  a  doctorjj 
and  no  doctor  dwelt  in  this  direction. 

"Hullo,  friend!" 

"Hullo!" 

The  rider  reined  up,  and  by  the  light  of  his  lamps 
Parson  Chichester  recognised  the  young  giant  Roger. 

"What's  your  errand,  my  friend?" 

"To  Culvercoombe.    The  children " 

"Miss  Sally  has  left  by  the  night  train,  I  drove  her 
over  to  Fair  Anchor  myself.  What  of  the  children? 
We  were  expecting  them  all  the  afternoon." 

" They  are  gone — lost!  Last  night,  as  we  reckon,  they 
took  the  boat  and  made  a  bolt  for  it.  All  this  day  we've 
been  searching,  and  an  hour  agone  word  comes  from 
the  coast-guard  that  the  boat  has  driven  ashore,  empty, 
on  Clatworthy  beach." 


364 


CHAPTER  XXV 

MISS   SALLY   BREAKS  THE  DOORS 

"And  to  shew  Thy  pity  upon  all  prisoners  and  captives." 

— The  Litany. 

Mr.  Hucks  sat  in  his  counting-house,  counting  out 
his  money — or  so  much  of  it  as  he  had  collected  from 
his  tenantry  on  his  Saturday  rounds.  It  amounted  to 
£12  2s.  9d.  in  cash;  but  to  this  must  be  added  a  caged 
bullfinch,  a  pair  of  dumb-bells,  a  down  mattress,  and 
an  ophicleide.  He  had  coveted  the  ophicleide  for 
weeks;  but  he  knew  how  to  wait,  and  in  the  end  it  had 
fallen  to  his  hand — if  the  simile  may  be  permitted — 
like  a  ripe  peach. 

The  clock  at  the  Great  Brewery  struck  ten,  the  hour 
at  which  the  banks  opened.  Mr.  Hucks  whisded  to 
himself  sofdy,  but  out  of  tune — sure  sign  that  he  was 
in  a  good  humour — as  he  closed  the  neck  of  his  money- 
bag and  tied  the  string  with  a  neat  knot.  Just  as  he 
was  reaching,  however,  for  coat  and  walking-stick, 
some  one  knocked  at  the  door, 

"Come  in!"  he  called,  and  resumed  his  seat  as  a 
lady  entered — a  stranger  to  him.  At  first  glance  he 
guessed  she  might  be  the  wife  of  some  impecunious 
musician,  come  to  plead  for  restitution  of  an  instrument. 

365 


TRUE  TILDA 

Such  things  happened  now  and  again  on  Monday 
mornings;  nor  was  the  mistake  without  excuse  in  Miss 
Sally's  attire.  Wlien  travelling  without  her  maid  she 
had  a  way  of  putting  on  anything  handy,  and  in  the 
order  more  or  less  as  it  came  to  hand.  Without  speci- 
fying, it  may  be  said  that  two  or  three  articles  usually 
ranked  as  underclothing  had  this  morning  partially 
worked  their  way  up  to  the  top  stratum,  and  that  by 
consequence  her  person  presented  more  than  one  ex- 
ample of  what  geologists  call  a  "fault" — though  it  is 
actually  rather  a  misfortune.  As  for  her  hat,  she  had 
started  by  putting  it  on  sideways,  and  then,  since  it 
would  not  "sit,"  and  she  had  mislaid  her  hat  pins,  had 
bound  it  boldly  in  place  with  a  gray  woollen  comforter, 
and  knotted  the  ends  under  her  chin.  What  gave  Mr, 
Hucks  pause  was,  first,  the  brusqueness  of  her  entry, 
and  next,  the  high  clear  tone  of  her  accost. 

"Mr.  Christopher  Hucks?" 

"At  your  service,  ma'am." 

"I  hope  so,  because  I  want  your  help." 

"As  for  that,  ma'am,  I  don't  know  who  sent  you; 
but  it  ain't  generally  reckoned  in  my  line." 

Miss  Sally  glanced  round  the  counting-house. 

"You  have  the  materials  for  doing  quite  a  lot  of  mis- 
cellaneous good  in  the  world.  But  I'm  not  come  to  bor- 
row money,  if  that  makes  you  easier " 

"It  do,  ma'am." 

"  — and  I  don't  know  a  note  of  music." 

366 


MISS  SALLY  BREAKS  THE  DOORS 

"Me  either,"  murmured  Mr.  Hucks  regretfully. 

"That  being  so,  we'll  come  to  business.  May  I  take 
a  seat?" 

"Where  you — "  He  was  going  to  say  "please,"  but 
substituted  "choose." 

"Thank  you.  My  name's  Breward — Sally  Breward, 
and  I  live  at  a  place  called  Culvercoombe,  on  the 
Devon  and  Somerset  border.  My  business  is  that  I'm 
interested  in  a  couple  of  children,  about  whom  you 
know  something.  They  broke  out,  some  days  ago, 
from  an  Orphanage  kept  here  by  one  Glasson;  and 
I  gather  that  you  gave  them  a  helping  hand." 

"Whoever  told  you  that — "  began  Mr.  Hucks. 

"Nobody  told  me.  I  said  that  I  gathered  it.  The 
girl  never  gave  you  away  for  a  moment.  We  will  agree, 
if  you  prefer  it,  that  I  put  two  and  two  together.  But 
look  here:  you  can  be  open  with  me  or  not,  as  you 
please;  I'm  going  to  be  open  with  you.  And  first  let 
me  say  that  the  boy  is  pretty  certainly  the  son  of  a 
neighbour  of  mine,  and  heir  to  considerable  estates." 

Mr.  Hucks  whistled  softly  to  himself. 

"As  for  the  girl  who  helped  him  to  escape,  she's  prob- 
ably just  what  she  says — a  show-child  who,  happening 
to  be  laid  up  lame  in  hospital,  chanced  on  this  scent, 
and  has  held  to  it — to  make  an  addition  of  my  own — 
with  the  pluck  of  a  terrier." 

Mr.  Hucks  nodded,  but  would  not  commit  himself. 

"  Where  are  they  now  ?  "  he  asked.  "  In  your  keepin'  ?  " 

367 


TRUE  TILDA 

"That's  just  the  trouble."  Miss  Sally  unfolded  a 
scrap  of  pinkish-coloured  paper.  "I  left  them  in  good 
keeping  with  an  honest  farmer  and  his  wife — tenants  of 
mine;  I  had  a  telegram  sent  to  the  boy's  father,  who  is 
abroad;  and  I  posted  up  here  by  night  mail  to  satisfy 
myself  by  a  few  inquiries." 

"You've  seen  Glasson,  then  ?"  Mr.  Hucks  interrupted. 

"I  have;  but  not  in  any  way  you  suspect.  I  haven't 
called,  for  instance,  at  the  Orphanage — though  I  intend 
to.  Glasson's  not  at  home.  He  was  down  in  my  neigh- 
bourhood yesterday  afternoon,  nosing  around  for  in- 
formation." 

"Then  he  knows  the  children  are  thereabouts?" 

"  No,  he  does  not.  But  has  been  pushing  researches. 
He  has  learnt  who  is  the  boy's  probable  father,  and 
where  he  lives — at  a  place  called  Meriton.  He  came  to 
Meriton  to  get  the  father's  foreign  address,  and  when 
the  butler  refused  it,  he  called  on  me." 

"I  see."  Mr.  Hucks  nodded.  "And  you  refused 
it,  too?" 

"  I  did  better.    I  gave  it  to  him " 

"Eh?" 

"  — at  the  same  time  taking  care  that  the  father — his 
name  is  Chandon,  by  the  way,  and  he's  a  baronet — 
should  get  a  wire  from  me  to  come  home  by  the  first 
train  he  can  catch.  By  this  means,  you  see,  I  not  only 
get  Glasson  out  of  the  neighbourhood,  where  he  might 
have  run  against  the  children,  or  picked  up  news  of 

368 


MISS  SALLY  BREAKS  THE  DOORS 

them,  but  I  send  him  all  the  way  to  the  South  of  France 
expressly  to  find  his  bird  flown.  It's  cruel,  I  grant  you; 
but  I've  no  tenderness  for  blackmailers — especially 
when  they  keep  Orphanages." 

"You're  right  there.  You've  no  call  to  waste  any 
pity  on  Glasson.  But  the  question  is,  Will  he  come? 
The  father,  I  mean." 

"Certainly,  since  I  tell  him,"  Miss  Sally  answered 
with  composure. 

"And  him  a  bart — a  bloomin'  bart — what  the  Tich- 
borne  chap  used  to  call  a  bart  of  the  B.K. !" 

Mr.  Hucks  stared  at  his  visitor  with  rounded  eyes, 
drew  a  long  breath,  puffed  out  his  cheeks  and  emitted 
it,  and  wound  up  by  removing  his  hat  and  laying  it  on 
the  ledge  of  the  desk. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  you've  done  it  clever.  You've  done 
it  so  mighty  clever  that  I  don't  see  why  you  come  to  me 
to  help.    /  can't  order  barts  about." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Sally;  "in  this  part  of  the  business 
I  fear  you  cannot  help.    Read  that,  please." 

She  spread  open  the  telegraph  form  which  she  had 
been  holding  all  this  while,  and  laid  it  on  the  desk 
before  him. 

Breward,  Grand  Central  Hotel,  Bursfield. 

Regret  to  say  children  missing.  Supposed  left  Inistow 
Cove  TosselVs  boat  Saturday  night.  Boat  found  ashore 
Clatworthy  beach.  Search  parties  along  coast.  Will  report 
any  news. — Chichester. 

369 


TRUE  TILDA 

"When  did  you  get  this,  ma'am,  making  so  bold?" 
"At  nine  this  morning.     If  you  look,  you  will  see 
the  telegram  was  handed  in  at  8.37,  and  received  here 
at  8.50 — is  it  not?    The  sender  is  a  Mr.  Chichester, 
a  clergyman  and  a  friend  of  mine." 

"Ay,"  said  Mr.  Hucks,  after  slowly  examining  the 
telegram  and  the  office  stamp.  He  raised  his  formidable 
gray  eyes  and  fixed  them  full  on  Miss  Sally. 

"Oh,"  she  said  after  a  while,  but  without  blanching, 
"I  see  what's  in  your  mind." 

"No,  you  don't,"  he  answered  abruptly.     "It  did 
cross  my  mind,  but  it's  not  there  any  longer.    You're 
straight.     And  you're    quality — though    maybe    your 
kind  don't  answer  to  the  pictcher-books.  .   .   .  Well, 
about  this  wire  now.  .  .  .  What's  your  opinion?" 
"Why,  that  the  children  are  lost." 
"Meanin'  by  that  drowned — or  just  missing?" 
"From  that  message  what  must  one  conclude?" 
"Well,"  said  Mr.  Hucks  slowly,  after  another  perusal 
of  the  telegram,  "I  don't  conclude  much  from  it;   but 
from  my  knowledge  of  the  gal-child,  I  jolly  well  conclude 
that  they're  no  more  drowned  than  you  'r  me.    They've 
just  made  another  bolt  for  it,  and  the  shipwrecked 
boat's  no  more  than  a  blind." 

"They  were  comfortable  enough  at  Inistow  Farm. 
Why  should  they  want  to  bolt?"  Miss  Sally  urged. 

"  Because,  ma'am,  that  gal  has  a  business  conscience 
developed  to  a  degree  I  never  struck  yet  in  man  or 

370 


MISS  SALLY  BREAKS  THE  DOORS 

woman.  You've  dealt  open  with  me,  and  I'll  deal  open 
with  you.  I  did  help  that  pair  to  give  Glasson  the  slip; 
not  from  any  kindheartedness,  I'd  have  you  to  know, 
if  you're  thinkin'  to  accuse  me  of  it;  but  as  a  kind  of 
by-speculation.  For  I  saw  that  dirty  thief  Glasson  was 
mad  to  get  the  boy  back,  and  it  seemed  to  me  there  was 
likely  some  money  in  it.  I  gave  'em  their  chance,  yes; 
because  it  happened  so,  and  I  couldn't  see  no  other 
way.  Now,  observe  me — that  gal  knew  all  the  time  I 
wasn't  doing  it  for  my  health,  as  you  might  say;  she 
knew  well  enough  I  was  just  as  hard  as  Glasson,  though 
maybe  in  a  different  way.  She  knew  this,  and  as  things 
turned  out,  she  might  have  run  off  with  the  boy  and 
snapped  her  fingers  at  me.  But  does  she  ?  Nothing  o' 
the  sort.  She  freezes  to  her  bargain,  same  as  if  she'd 
all  a  lawyer's  knowledge  and  none  of  his  conscience. 
First,  she  clears  me  back  every  penny  I've  invested  in 
Mortimer,  and  with  interest;  and  I'm  the  first  man 
that  ever  invested  on  that  scamp  and  saw  his  money 
again.  When  that's  paid  she  strikes  out  on  a  trail  of 
her  own — but  not  to  lose  herself  and  the  boy;  not  she. 
At  every  halt  she  reports  herself  and  him;  and  by  her 
last  I  was  to  write  to  her  at  a  place  called  Holmness, 
which  I  posted  a  letter  there  yesterday." 

"Holmness!"   ejaculated   Miss  Sally.     "Holmness, 
did  you  say?" 

"That's     so.     Might     it     be     anywhere     in    your 
parts?" 

371 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Of  course  it  is.  But  Holmness,  my  good  sir,  is  an 
island." 

"She  mentioned  that,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it. 
Island  or  not,  she'll  get  there,  if  she  bursts;  and  I 
won't  believe  other  till  I  hear  from  the  Dead  Letter 
Office." 

"  You  addressed  a  letter  to  Holmness  ?  .  .  .  But  it's 
too  absurd ;  the  place  is  a  mere  barren  rock,  three  good 
miles  from  the  mainland.  Nothing  there  but  rabbits, 
and  in  summer  a  few  sheep." 

"Mayhap  she  didn't  know  it  when  she  gave  the  ad- 
dress. But,"  persisted  Mr.  Hucks  doggedly,  "she's 
there  if  she's  alive.    You  go  back  and  try." 

[He  gave  Tilda,  as  the  reader  knows,  more  credit 
than  she  deserved;  but  from  this  may  be  deduced  a 
sound  moral — that  the  value  of  probity,  as  an  asset  in 
dealing,  is  quite  incalculable.] 

Miss  Sally  considered  for  a  full  minute — for  two 
minutes,  Mr.  Hucks  watching  her  face  from  under  his 
shaggy  eyebrows. 

"It  is  barely  possible,"  she  owned  at  length.  "But 
supposing  they  have  reached  Holmness,  it  can  only  be 
to  starve.  Good  Lord!  they  may  be  starving  to  death 
there  at  this  moment!" 

Mr.  Hucks  kept  his  composure. 

"  It's  plain  to  me  you  haven't  measured  that  gal,"  he 
said  slowly.  "  Is  this  Holmness  in  sight  from  the  farm 
— whatever  you  call  it — where  they  were  missed?" 

372 


MISS  SALLY  BREAKS  THE  DOORS 

"Right  opposite  the  coast  there." 

"And  not  more  than  three  miles  away?  Then  you 
may  take  it  she  won't  have  started  without  provisions. 
It  wouldn't  be  her  way." 

[Again,  the  reader  perceives,  he  gave  Tilda  unde- 
served credit;  but  always  in  this  world  the  Arthur 
Milese's  will  be  left  out  of  account  by  men  of  business, 
to  upset  again  and  again  their  calculations.] 

"So,"  he  continued,  "there's  no  need  for  you  to  be 
running  and  sending  telegrams  to  folks  there  to  chivvy 
'em.  Take  the  next  train  home  and  pick  up  the  credit 
yourself." 

"Mr.  Hucks,"  said  Miss  Sally  after  a  pause,  "you 
are  a  remarkable  man.  I  am  half  inclined  to  believe 
you;  and  if  you  should  prove  to  be  right,  I  shall  not 
know  how  to  repay  you." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Hucks,  "it  seems  likely  I've  helped, 
after  all.  I'm  not  pressing  for  payment;  though,  as 
between  persons  of  business,  I'm  glad  you  mention  it." 

"If  these  children  are  recovered,  you  shall  name  any 
price  in  reason.  But  there  is  another  matter  in  which 
you  can  help  me,  I  hope.  I  want  admission  to  Glas- 
son's  Orphanage." 

"The  'Oly  Innocents?  It  goes  by  nomination,  and 
I'm  not  a  subscriber,"  said  Mr.  Hucks  with  a  grin, 
which  Miss  Sally  ignored. 

"Will  it  be  enough  if  I  call  and  ask  to  be  shown  over 
the  institution?'* 

373 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Quite  enough — to  get  the  door  slammed  in  your 
face." 

"Well,  I  mean  to  have  a  look  inside,  even  though  I 
get  you  to  put  me  in  a  sack  and  lower  me  into  the  coal- 
cellar." 

"That's  an  idea,  though,"  said  Mr,  Hucks  rising. 

He  went  to  the  door  and,  stepping  into  the  yard, 
emitted  a  loud  roar  like  the  bellow  of  a  bull.  Appar- 
ently it  was  his  method  of  telephoning  to  his  employes. 
After  a  moment  a  distant  voice  called  back,  "Ay, 
ay,  boss!" 

"Where's  Sam  Bossom?" 

"In  the  stables." 

"Then  send  him  along  here,  and  tell  him  to  look 
sharp.  He's  the  man  for  our  job,"  explained  Mr. 
Hucks,  returning  to  the  counting-house;  "and  maybe 
you'll  like  to  make  his  acquaintance,  too,  after  what 
you've  'card." 

"Before  he  comes  I  should  like  even  better  to  hear 
your  plan  of  campaign;  for  it  seems  that  you  have  one." 

"I  have;  but  it  being  what  you  might  call  a  trifle 
'igh-'anded,  I  wasn't  proposin'  to  drag  a  lady  into  it — 
leastways,  not  to  make  her  an  accomplice  before  the 
fac'." 

"I'll  risk  that,"  she  assured  him. 

"Well,  you  see,  Glasson  owes  me  for  coal;  thirteen 
ten  on  the  last  lot  delivered,  and  six  pounds  owin'  be- 
fore that — total,  nineteen  ten.  I  warned  him  he'd  got  the 

374 


MISS  SALLY  BREAKS  THE  DOORS 

last  lot  out  o'  me  by  a  trick;  an'  I'm  goin'  to  send  Sam 
to  see  if  there's  a  chance  to  recover  it.  That  '11  be  bv 
the  back  way — same  as  the  children  got  out.  Eh? 
Here's  the  man,"  he  wound  up  as  Sam  Bossom's  honest 
face  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Bossom."  Miss  Sally  held 
out  a  hand.    "I'm  proud  to  make  your  acquaintance." 

"Thank  ye,  ma'am."  Sam  looked  at  the  hand,  but 
rubbed  his  own  up  and  down  the  seat  of  his  trousers. 
"What  for,  if  it's  not  makin'  too  bold  ?" 

"The  lady  here,"  explained  Mr.  Hucks,  "is  a  friend 
of  two  children  that  broke  out  of  'Oly  Innocents 
t'  other  day — as  it  may  be  you'll  remember.  What's 
more,  she's  brought  news  o'  them." 

"Oh!"  said  Sam,  his  face  clearing.  "Doin*  pretty 
well,  I  'ope?" 

"They  were  quite  well  when  I  left  them,  two  days 
ago.  Come,  shake  hands  and  tell  me.  How  is  every 
one  at  the 'Four  Alls'?" 

"If  it  'adn't  been  for  them  children — "  blurted  Sam, 
and  came  to  a  full  stop. 

Miss  Sally  nodded. 

"They  are  wonders,  those  Babes  in  the  Wood;  and 
the  funniest  thing  about  'em  is,  while  they  went  along 
asking  their  way,  they  were  all  the  time  teaching  it  to 
others." 

"Well,"  struck  in  Mr.  Hucks,  while  Sam  scratched 
his  head  over  this,  "  I  suggest  the  conspiracy  may  just 

375 


TRUE  TILDA 

as  well  get  going  at  once.  Sam,  I  want  you  to  step 
along  to  'Oly  Innocents  with  us,  and  on  the  road  I'll 
fix  up  your  modest  hopper'andy." 

Of  this  modus  operandi  the  opening  move  was  made 
as  the  trio  reached  the  confines  of  the  Orphanage 
premises.  Here,  by  the  angle  of  the  red  brick  wall, 
Mr.  Bossom  halted  to  strike  a  match  for  his  pipe.  He 
struck  it  upon  the  iron  cover  of  the  manhole,  and  thus 
made  opportunity  to  assure  himself  that  the  cover  was 
still  removable.  Satisfied  of  this,  he  lit  his  pipe  and 
stood  for  a  minute  puffing  at  it,  and  staring,  now  at  the 
stagnant  canal  water,  now  after  the  retreating  figures  of 
Miss  Sally  and  Mr.  Hucks,  as  without  a  backward 
look  they  passed  down  the  towpath  to  the  iron  bridge. 

At  the  bridge  they  turned,  as  Tilda  had  turned,  to 
the  left,  and  came,  as  Tilda  had  come,  to  the  Orphan- 
age gate  with  its  box  labelled,  "For  Voluntary  Dona- 
tions." 

Mr.  Hucks  rang  the  bell;  and  after  a  minute  or  so 
Mrs.  Huggins,  slatternly  as  ever,  opened  the  front  door 
and  came  shuffling  down  the  pathway. 

"Eh?"  said  she,  halting  within  the  gate,  a  pilaster 
of  which  hid  Miss  Sally  from  her.  "Mr.  'Ucks?  And 
what  might  you  be  wantin',  Mr.  'Ucks?" 

"Nineteen  pound  ten,"  Mr.  Hucks  answered  tersely. 

"Then  you  can't  'ave  it." 

"That's  a  pity."  He  appeared  to  ruminate  for  a 
second  or  two.     "And  I  can't  ofTer  to  take  it  out  in 

376 


MISS  SALLY  BREAKS  THE  DOORS 
orphans,  neither.     Very  well,  then,  I  must  see  Glas- 


son." 


"You  can't;  Vs  not  at  'ome." 

"That's  a  worse  pity.  Hist,  now!"  he  went  on  with 
a  sudden  change  of  tone,  "it's  about  the  runaways. 
I've  news  of  'em." 

He  said  it  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

"For  the  Lord's  sake — "  entreated  the  woman, 
glancing  nervously  across  his  shoulder  at  the  traflBc  in 
the  street.  "The  Doctor  don't  want  it  discussed  for 
all  the  town  to  'ear." 

"No,  I  bet  he  don't.  But  it's  your  own  fault,  missus. 
This  side  o'  the  gate  a  man  can't  scarcely  hear  hisself 
speak." 

"Come  in,  then,  if  you've  brought  news.  The 
Doctor  '11  be  glad  enough  when  'e  comes  back." 

"Will  he?"  Mr.  Hucks,  as  she  opened,  planted  his 
bulk  against  the  gate,  pushing  it  back  and  at  the  same 
time  making  way  for  Miss  Sally  to  follow  him.  "Yes, 
I  got  news;  but  here's  a  lady  can  tell  it  better  than  me 
— 'avin'  come  acrost  them  right  away  down  in  Somerset." 

Mrs.  Huggins  stepped  forward,  but  too  late. 

"  I  don't  want  no  crowd  in  'ere,"  she  muttered,  falling 
back  a  pace,  however,  as  Miss  Sally  confronted  her. 

"You'll  have  one  in  two  two's  if  you  make  any  dis- 
turbance," Miss  Sally  promised  her,  with  half  a  glance 
back  at  the  street.  "Show  me  into  the  house,  if  you 
please." 

377 


TRUE  TILDA 

"Shan't." 

The  woman  placed  herself  in  the  pathway,  with 
arms  akimbo,  barring  her  passage. 

"You  behave  very  foolishly  in  denying  me,"  said 
Miss  Sally. 

"Maybe;  but  I  got  my  orders.  You  never  took  no 
orders  from  a  man,  I  should  say — not  by  the  looks  o' 
yer." 

"You  are  right  there." 

Miss  Sally  regarded  her  with  a  smile  of  conscious 
strength,  stem  but  good-natured.  Her  gaze  wandered 
past  the  woman's  shoulder,  and  the  smile  broadened. 
Mrs.  Huggins  saw  it  broaden,  and  cast  a  look  behind 
her  toward  the  house — to  see  Mr.  Bossom,  coal-, 
grimed  but  cheerful,  grinning  down  on  her  from  the 
front  doorstep. 

"It's  a  trap!"  she  gasped,  shooting  a  venomous  look 
at  Mr.  Hucks. 

"It  looks  like  one,"  said  Miss  Sally,  stepping  past 
her;  "and  I  shall  be  curious  to  know,  by  and  by,  who 
baited  it." 

"Where  shall  I  take  ye,  ma'am  ?"  asked  Sam  Bossom. 

"Show  me  the  children  first,  if  you  please." 

He  walked  before  her  down  the  unsavoury  passage. 
He  was  unacquainted  with  the  interior,  and  knew  only 
that  the  way  through  the  kitchens,  by  which  he  had 
come,  led  to  the  kitchen  garden  and  missed  the  chil- 
dren's quarters.    Avoiding  this,  and  opening  a  door  at 

378 


MISS  SALLY  BREAKS  THE  DOORS  ^ 

random — a  door  on  his  right — he  stepped  into  the  bare 
drawing-room.  Miss  Sally  followed,  and  Mrs.  Hug- 
gins  at  her  heels,  protesting.  Mr.  Hucks  brought  up 
the  rear.  Finding  himself  in  an  apartment  which 
apparently  led  nowhither,  Sam  would  have  turned 
and  shepherded  the  party  back  into  the  corridor;  but 
Miss  Sally  strode  past  him,  attempted  to  fling  up  the 
window-sash,  but  in  vain,  and  looking  over  it,  beheld 
what  Tilda  had  beheld — the  gravelled  yard,  the  children 
walking  listlessly  to  and  fro,  the  groups  passing  and 
repassing  with  scarce  a  lift  of  the  eyes,  the  boys  walking 
with  the  boys  and  the  girls  with  the  girls. 

"But  it  is  horrible — horrible!"  cried  Miss  Sally. 
"Mr.  Hucks,  lend  me  your  stick,  if  you  please.  This 
window  won't  open." 

He  passed  his  stick  to  her,  supposing  that  she  meant 
in  some  way  to  prise  the  window  open.  But  she  took 
it  and  deliberately  smashed  a  pane — two  panes — all  the 
six  panes  with  their  coloured  transparencies  of  the 
Prodigal  Son.  And  the  worst  was,  that  the  children  in 
the  yard,  as  the  glass  broke  and  fell,  scarcely  betrayed 
surprise.  One  or  two  glanced  furtively  toward  the 
window.    It  seemed  that  they  dared  do  no  more. 

"Save  us!"  exclaimed  Miss  Sally.  "They're  starv- 
ing; that's  what's  the  matter!" 

"They  are  not,  ma'am! "  still  protested  Mrs.  Huggins. 

"Tut,  woman,  don't  talk  to  me.  I've  bred  cattle, 
and  I  know.    Fetch  me  a  list  of  the  pious  persons  that 

379 


TRUE  TILDA 

have  lent  their  names  to  this  swindle.  You,  Mr.  Hucks, 
take  me  up-stairs;  I'll  explore  this  den  from  garret  to 
basement,  though  it  cost  my  stomach  all  that  by  the 
smell  I  judge  it  will.  And  you,  Sam  Bossom — here's 
a  five-pound  note:  take  it  to  the  nearest  pastry-cook's 
and  buy  up  the  stock.  Fetch  it  here  in  cabs;  hire  every 
cab  you  meet  on  the  way;  and  when  you've  brought 
'em,  tell  'em  to  wait!" 

An  hour  later  a  procession  of  fifteen  cabs  drove  up 
to  the  Grand  Central  Hotel,  Bursfield,  to  the  frank 
dismay  of  hall-porters  and  manager;  a  dismay  which 
Miss  Sally  accepted  with  the  lordliest  indifference. 

"You  see  that  they're  stowed,"  she  advised  Mr. 
Hucks  shortly,  as  they  helped  the  dazed  children  to 
alight.  "And  if  there's  any  difficulty,  send  the  manager 
to  me.  He'll  find  me  in  the  telegraph  office."  She  con- 
sulted a  prospectus  of  the  Holy  Innocents,  extorted 
from  Mrs.  Huggins.  "I  shall  be  there  for  an  hour  at 
least.  There  are  two  dozen  patrons  on  this  list — besides 
a  score  of  executive  committee,  and  I'm  going — bless 
you,  Mr.  Hucks — to  give  those  philanthropists  the  dry 
grins." 

"A  telegram  for  you,  ma'am,"  said  the  hall-porter, 
advancing  with  a  nervous  eye  on  the  children  congre- 
gated, and  still  congregating,  in  the  hall. 

Miss  Sally  took  it  and  read : 

Coming  Fair  Anchor,  4.30  Tuesday.     Chandon. 

380 


MISS  SALLY  BREAKS  THE  DOORS 

She  knit  her  brows  and  examined  the  telegraph  form 
carefully.  The  message  was  forwarded  from  Fair 
Anchor.  It  had  been  handed  in  at  the  Monte  Carlo 
post-office  on  Sunday  night,  addressed  to  Culvercoombe, 
but  at  what  hour  she  could  not  decipher.  The  Fair 
Anchor  office  was  closed  on  Sunday,  and  opened  on 
Monday  at  eight  o'clock.  The  telegram  had  been  re- 
ceived there  at  8.12;  had  been  taken  to  Culvercoombe, 
and  apparently  retransmitted  at  12.15.  All  this  was 
unimportant.  But  how  on  earth  had  her  telegram,  to 
which  this  was  evidently  a  reply,  reached  Monte  Carlo 
on  Sunday  evening — last  evening  ? 

She  considered  a  while,  and  hit  on  the  explanation. 
Parson  Chichester  last  evening,  calling  on  the  coast- 
guard in  his  search,  must  have  used  their  telephone 
and  got  the  message  through  by  some  office  open  on 
Sundays. 


381 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


THE   RESCUE 


"  0,  who  lives  on  the  Island, 

Betwix'  the  sea  an'  the  sky  f 
— /  think  it  must  be  a  lady,  a  lady, 
I  think  it  must  be  a  genuwine  lady, 

She  carries  her  head  so  high." — Old  Ballad. 

In  the  moonlit  garden  of  the  Casino  at  Monte  Carlo 
Miles  Chandon  smoked  a  cigar  pensively,  leaning 
against  the  low  wall  that  overlooks  the  pigeon-shooters' 
enclosure,  the  railway  station,  and  the  foreshore.  He 
was  alone,  as  always.  That  a  man  who,  since  the  great 
folly  of  his  life,  had  obstinately  cultivated  solitude 
should  make  holiday  in  Monte  Carlo,  of  all  places,  is 
paradoxical  enough;  but  in  truth  the  crowd  around 
the  tables,  the  diners  at  the  hotel,  the  pigeon-shooters, 
the  whole  cosmopolitan  gathering  of  idle  rich  and 
predatory  poor,  were  a  spectacle  to  him  and  no  more. 
If  once  or  twice  a  day  he  staked  a  few  napoleons  on 
black  or  red  in  the  inner  room  of  the  Casino,  it  was  as 
a  man,  finding  himself  at  Homburg  or  Marienbad, 
might  take  a  drink  of  the  waters  from  curiosity  and  to 
fill  up  the  time.  He  made  no  friends  in  the  throng. 
He  found  no  pleasure  in  it.    But  when  he  grew  weary 

382 


THE  RESCUE 

at  home  in  his  laboratory,  or  when  his  doctor  advised 
that  confinement  and  too  much  poring  over  chemicals 
were  telling  on  his  health,  he  packed  up  and  made  for 
Monte  Carlo,  or  some  other  expensive  place  popularly 
supposed  to  be  a  "pleasure-resort."  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  did  not  understand  pleasure,  or  what  it  means. 

Finding  him  in  this  pensive  attitude  in  the  moonlit 
garden  by  the  sea,  you  might  guess  that  he  was  senti- 
mentalising over  his  past.  He  was  doing  nothing  of  the 
sort.  He  was  watching  a  small  grayish-white  object 
the  moon  revealed  on  the  roof  of  the  railway  station 
below,  just  within  the  parapet.  He  knew  it  to  be  a 
pigeon  that  had  escaped,  wounded,  from  the  sportsmen 
in  the  enclosure.  Late  that  afternoon  he  had  seen  the 
poor  creature  fluttering.  He  wondered  that  the  oflBcials 
(at  Monte  Carlo  they  clean  up  everything)  had  not  seen 
it  before  and  removed  it.  He  watched  it,  curious  to 
know  if  it  were  still  alive.  He  had  a  fancy  at  the  back 
of  his  head — that  if  the  small  body  fluttered  again  he 
would  go  back  to  his  rooms,  fetch  a  revolver,  and  give 
the  coup  de  grace.  And  he  smiled  as  he  played  with  the 
fancy,  foreseeing  the  rush  of  agitated  oflScials  that  a 
revolver  shot  in  the  gardens  would  instantly  bring  upon 
him.  It  would  be  great  fun,  explaining;  but  the  offence 
no  doubt  would  be  punishable.  By  what?  Banish- 
ment, probably. 

He  turned  for  a  moment  at  the  sound  of  a  footstep, 
and  was  aware  of  his  man  Louis. 

383 


TRUE  TILDA 

"A  telegram,  sir." 

"Eh?  Now  who  in  the  world—  Matters  hasn't 
burnt  down  Meriton,  I  hope?" 

He  opened  the  telegram  and  walked  with  it  to  the 
nearest  of  the  electric  lamps;  read  it,  and  stood  pon- 
dering. 

"Louis,  when  does  the  new  night-express  leave  for 
Paris?" 

"In  twenty-five  minutes,  sir." 

"Then  I've  a  mind  to  catch  it.  Put  up  a  travelling 
suit  in  my  bag.  I  can  get  out  of  these  clothes  in  the 
train.  You  had  better  pack  the  rest,  pay  the  bill,  and 
follow  to-morrow." 

"If  you  wish  it,  sir.    But  if  I  may  suggest " 

"Yes?" 

"In  twenty  minutes  1  can  do  all  that  easily,  and  book 
the  sleeping-berths,  too.  I  suggest,  sir,  you  will  find  it 
more  comfortable,  having  me  on  the  train." 

"Admirable  man — hurry  up,  then!" 

The  admirable  man  saluted  respectfully  and  retired 
"hurt,"  as  they  say  in  the  cricket  reports.  He  never 
hurried;  it  was  part  of  the  secret  by  which  he  was  al- 
ways punctual.  At  the  station  he  even  found  time  to 
suggest  that  his  master  might  wish  to  send  a  telegram, 
and  to  despatch  it. 

* 

This  was  on  Sunday.  They  reached  London  late  on 
Monday  evening,  and  there — Louis  having  telegraphed 

384 


THE  RESCUE 

from  Paris — Sir  Miles  found  his  favourite  room  ready 
for  him  at  Claridge's.  Next  morning,  as  his  hansom 
drew  up  a  few  minutes  after  eleven  o'clock  by  the  en- 
trance to  Paddington  Station,  he  observed  that  the 
porter  who  stepped  forward  from  the  rank  to  attend  on 
him,  did  so  with  a  preoccupied  air.  The  man  was  grin- 
ning, and  kept  glancing  along  the  pavement  to  his  right. 

"Luggage  on  the  cab  just  behind,"  said  Sir  Miles, 
alighting.  "  Never  mind  me;  my  man  will  take  the  tick- 
ets and  get  me  a  seat.    But  what's  the  excitement  here  ?  " 

"Lady  along  there,  sir — offering  to  fight  her  cabby. 
Says  he  can't  drive  for  nuts " 

"Hullo!" 

Sir  Miles  looked,  recognised  Miss  Sally,  and  walked 
briskly  toward  her.  She  caught  sight  of  him  and  nodded. 

"Thought  you  would  come.    Excuse  me  a  moment." 

She  lifted  her  voice  and  addressed  the  cabby  again: 

"Oh,  you  can  talk.  They  taught  you  that  at  the 
Board  School,  no  doubt.  But  drive  you  cannot;  and 
talk  you  would  not,  if  you  knew  the  respect  due  to  a 
mouth — your  own  or  your  horse's." 

With  this  parting  shot  she  turned  to  Sir  Miles  again, 
and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Tell  your  man  he  needn't  trouble  about  a  seat  for 
you.    I've  engaged  a  compartment  where  we  can  talk," 

"Well?"  he  asked,  ten  minutes  later,  lowering  his 
newspaper  as  the  train  drew  out  of  the  station. 

385 


TRUE  TILDA 
"Well,  in  the  first  place,  it's  very  good  of  you  trt 


come," 


"Oh,  as  for  that.  .  .  .  You  know  that  if  I  can  eve/ 
do  you  any  service " 

"But  you  can't.  It  was  for  your  own  sake  I  tele- 
graphed." 

"Mine?  Is  Meriton  really  burnt  to  the  ground, 
then  ?    But  even  that  news  wouldn't  gravely  aflBict  me." 

"It  isn't — and  it  would.  At  any  rate,  it  might  now, 
I  hope,"  said  Miss  Sally  enigmatically. 

He  waited  for  her  to  continue. 

"Your  wife's  dead!"  she  said. 

She  heard  him  draw  a  quick  breath. 

"Indeed?"  he  asked  indifferently. 

"But  your  son  isn't — at  least,  I  hope  not." 

He  looked  up  and  met  her  eyes. 

"But  I  had  word,"  he  said  slowly,  "word  from  her, 
and  in  her  own  handwriting.  A  boy  was  born,  and 
died  six  or  seven  weeks  later — as  I  remember,  the  letter 
said  within  a  week  after  his  christening." 

Miss  Sally  nodded. 

"That  settles  it,"  she  said;  "being  untrue,  as  I  hap- 
pen to  know.  The  child  was  alive  and  hearty  a  year 
after  the  christening,  when  they  left  Cawsand  and 
moved  to  the  East  Coast.  The  fact  is,  my  friend,  you 
had  run  up — if  not  in  your  wife,  then  in  the  coast- 
guardsman  Ned  Commins — against  a  pride  as  stubborn 
as  your  own.    They   wrote  you  a  He — that's  certain; 

386 


THE  RESCUE 

and  I'm  as  hard  as  most  upon  liars ;  but,  considering 
all,  I  don't  blame  'em.  They  weren't  mercenary, 
anyway.  They  only  wanted  to  have  no  more  truck 
with  you." 

"Have  you  seen  the  boy?" 

Again  Miss  Sally  nodded. 

"Yes,  and  there's  no  doubting  the  parentage.  I 
never  saw  that  cross-hatched  under-lip  in  any  but  a 
Chandon,  though  you  do  hide  it  with  a  beard :  let  alone 
that  he  carries  the  four  lozenges  tattooed  on  his  shoul- 
der. Ned  Commins  did  that.  There  was  a  moment, 
belike,  when  they  weakened — either  he  or  the  woman. 
But  you  had  best  hear  the  story,  and  then  you  can  judge 
the  evidence  for  yourself." 

She  told  it.  He  listened  with  set  face,  interposing 
here  and  there  to  ask  a  question,  or  to  weigh  one  detail 
of  her  narrative  against  another. 

"If  the  children  should  be  lost— which  God  forbid  I" 
she  wound  up,  " — and  if  I  never  did  another  good  day's 
work  in  my  life,  I'll  remember  that  they  started  me  to 
clear  that  infernal  Orphanage.  It's  by  the  interposition 
of  Heaven  that  you  didn't  find  me  on  Paddington 
platform  with  three-and-twenty  children  under  my 
wing.  *  Interposition  of  Heaven,'  did  I  say  ?  You  may 
call  it,  if  you  will,  the  constant  and  consistent  foolish- 
ness of  my  brother  Elphinstone.  In  every  tight  corner 
of  my  life  I've  learnt  to  trust  in  Elphinstone  for  a  fool, 
and  he  has  never  betrayed  me  yet.    There  I  was  in  the 

387 


TRUE  TILDA 

hotel  with  these  twenty-three  derehcts,  all  underfed, 
and  all  more  or  less  mentally  defective  through  Glas- 
son's  ill-treatment.  Two  or  three  were  actually  crying, 
in  a  feeble  way,  to  be  '  taken  home,'  as  they  called  it. 
They  were  afraid— afraid  of  their  kind,  afraid  of 
strange  faces,  afraid  of  everything  but  to  be  starved 
and  whipped.  I  was  forced  to  send  out  and  buy  new 
clothes  for  some,  there  and  then ;  and  their  backs,  when 
I  stripped  'em,  were  criss-crossed  with  weals— not 
quite  fresh,  you  understand,  for  Glasson  had  been  kept 
busy  of  late,  and  the  woman  Huggins  hadn't  his  arm. 
Well,  there  I  was,  stranded,  with  these  creatures  on  my 
hands,  all  of  'em,  as  you  may  say,  looking  up  at  me  in 
a  dumb  way,  and  wanting  to  know  why  I  couldn't  have 
let  'em  alone— and  if  ever  I  smash  up  another  Orphan- 
age you  may  call  me  a  Turk,  and  put  me  in  a  harem— 
when  all  of  a  sudden  it  occurred  to  me  to  look  up  the 
names  of  the  benevolent  parties  backing  the  institution. 
The  woman  had  given  me  a  copy  of  the  prospectus,  in- 
tending to  impress  me.  I  promised  myself  I'd  rattle 
these  philanthropists  as  they'd  never  been  rattled  before 
in  their  lives.  And  then — why  had  I  ever  doubted 
him  ?— half-way  down  the  hst  I  lit  on  Elphinstone's 
name.  .  .  .  His  place  is  at  Henley-in-Arden,  you  see, 
and  not  far  from  Bursfield.  ...  So  I  rattled  the  others 
(I  spent  three-quarters  of  an  hour  in  the  telegraph 
oflBce,  and  before  eleven  last  night  I  had  thirty-two 
answers.    They  are  all  in  my  bag,  and  you  shall  look 

388 


THE  RESCUE 

'em  over  by  and  by,  if  you  want  to  be  tickled),  but  I 
sent  Elphinstone  what  the  girl  Tilda  would  call  a 
cough-drop.  It  ran  to  five  sheets  or  thereabouts,  and 
cost  four-and-eightpence;  and  I  wound  up  by  telling 
him  I  meant  every  word  I'd  said.  He's  in  Bursfield  at 
this  moment,  you  may  bet,  carting  those  orphans 
around  into  temporary  quarters.  And  Elphinstone  is 
a  kind-hearted  man,  but  orphans  are  not  exactly  his 
line— not  what  he'd  call  congenial  to  him." 

"  But  these  two  ?  You  seem  to  me  pretty  sure  about 
finding  them  on  Holmness :  too  sure,  I  suggest.  Either 
you've  forgotten  to  say^  why  you're  certain,  or  I  may 
have  missed " 

"You  are  getting  keen,  I  see.  No,  I  have  no  right  to 
be  sure,  except  that  I  rely  on  the  girl — and  on  Hucks. 
(You  ought  to  know  Hucks,  by  the  way;  he  is  a  war- 
rior.) But  I  am  sure;  so  sure  that  I  have  wired  for  a 
steam-launch  to  be  ready  by  Clatworthy  pier.  .  .  . 
Will  you  come?" 

"  I  propose  to  see  this  affair  through,"  he  said  delib- 
erately. 

Miss  Sally  gave  him  a  sharp  look,  and  once  again 
nodded  approval. 

"And,  moreover,  so  sure,"  she  went  on,  "that  I  have 
not  wired  to  send  Chichester  in  search.  That's  worry- 
ing me,  I  confess;  for  although  Hucks  is  positive  the 
girl  would  not  start  for  Holmness  without  provisions — 
and  on  my  reading  of  her,  he's  right — this  is  Tuesday, 

389 


TRUE  TILDA 

and  they  have  been  missing  ever  since  Saturday  night, 
or  Sunday  morning  at  latest." 

"If  that  is  worrying  you,"  said  Chandon,  "it  may 
ease  your  mind  to  know  that  there  is  food  and  drink  on 
the  Island.  I  built  a  cottage  there  two  years  ago,  with 
a  laboratory;  I  spent  six  weeks  in  it  this  summer;  and 
— ^well,  ships  have  been  wrecked  on  Holmness,  and,  as 
an  old  naval  officer,  I've  provided  for  that  sort  of  thing." 

Miss  Sally  slapped  her  knee.  (Her  gestures  were 
always  unconventional.) 

"We  shall  find  'em  there!"  she  announced.  "I'm 
willing  to  lay  you  five  to  one  in  what  you  like." 

They  changed  at  Taunton  for  Fair  Anchor.  At  Fair 
Anchor  Station  Sir  Miles's  motor  awaited  them.  It 
had  been  ordered  by  Parson  Chichester,  instructed  by 
telegram  from  Taunton. 

The  Parson  himself  stood  on  the  platform,  but  he 
could  give  no  news  of  the  missing  ones. 

"We'll  have  'em  before  nightfall,"  promised  Miss 
Sally.    "Come  with  us,  if  you  will," 

So  all  three  climbed  into  the  motor,  and  were  whirled 
across  the  moor,  and  down  the  steep  descent  into  Clat- 
worthy  village,  and  by  Clatworthy  pier  a  launch  lay 
ready  for  them  with  a  full  head  of  steam. 

During  the  passage  few  words  were  said;  and  in- 
deed the  eager  throb  of  the  launch's  engine  discour- 
aged conversation.     Chandon  steered,  with  his  eyes 

390 


THE  RESCUE 

fixed  on  the  Island.  Miss  Sally,  too,  gazed  ahead  for 
the  most  part;  but  from  time  to  time  she  contrived  a 
glance  at  his  weary  face — gray  even  in  the  sunset 
toward  which  they  were  speeding. 

Sunset  lay  broad  and  level  across  the  Severn  Sea, 
lighting  its  milky  flood  with  splashes  of  purple,  of  lilac, 
of  gold.  The  sun  itself,  as  they  approached  the  Island, 
dropped  behind  its  crags,  silhouetting  them  against  a 
sky  of  palest  blue. 

They  drove  into  its  chill  shadow,  and  landed  on  the 
very  beach  from  which  the  children  had  watched  the 
stag  swim  out  to  meet  his  death.  They  climbed  up  by 
a  pathway  winding  between  thorn  and  gorse,  and  on 
the  ridge  met  the  flaming  sunlight  again. 

Miss  Sally  shielded  her  eyes. 

"They  will  be  here,  if  anywhere,"  said  Sir  Miles, 
and  led  the  way  down  the  long  saddle-back  to  the  en- 
trance of  the  gully. 

"Hullo!"  exclaimed  he,  coming  to  a  halt  as  the 
chimneys  of  the  bungalow  rose  into  view  above  the 
gorse-bushes.  From  one  of  them  a  steady  stream  of 
smoke  was  curling. 

"It's  a  hundred  to  one!"  gasped  Miss  Sally  trium- 
phantly. 

They  hurried  down — to  use  her  own  expression — 
like  a  pack  in  full  cry.  It  was  Parson  Chichester  who 
claimed  afterward  that  he  won  by  a  short  length,  and 
lifting  the  latch,  pushed  the  door  open.  And  this  was 

391 


TRUE  TILDA 

the  scene  he  opened  on,  so  far  as  it  has  since  been  re- 
constructed: 

Tilda  stood  with  her  back  to  the  doorway  and  a 
couple  of  paces  from  it,  surveying  a  table  laid — so  far 
as  Sir  Miles's  stock  of  glass  and  cutlery  allowed — for 
a  dinner-party  of  eight.  She  was  draped  from  the  waist 
down  in  a  crimson  window-curtain,  which  spuead  be- 
hind her  in  a  full-flowing  train.  In  her  hand  she  held 
her  recovered  book — the  Lady's  Vade-Mecum;  and  she 
read  from  it,  addressing  Arthur  Miles,  who  stood  and 
enacted  butler  by  the  side-table,  in  a  posture  of  studied 
subservience : 

" — Dinner  hein'  announced,  the  'ostess  will  dismiss  all 
care,  or  at  least  appear  to  do  so:  and,  *avin'  marshalled 
V  guests  in  order  of  precedence  (see  page  67  supra),  will 
take  the  arm  of  the  gentleman  favoured  to  conduct  'er. 
Some  light  and  playful  remark  will  'ere  be  not  out  of 
place,  such  as " 

"  Well,  I'm  d d,  if  you'll  excuse  me,"  ejaculated 

Miss  Sally. 

Late  that  night,  in  his  smoking-room  at  Meriton, 
Sir  Miles  Chandon  knocked  out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe 
against  the  bars  of  the  grate,  rose,  stretched  himself, 
and  looked  about  him.  Matters  had  left  a  bedroom 
candle  ready  to  hand  on  a  side-table,  as  his  custom 
was.    But  Sir  Miles  took  up  the  lamp  instead. 

392 


THE  RESCUE 

Lamp  in  hand,  he  went  up  the  great  staircase,  and 
along  the  unht  fifty  yards  of  corridor  to  the  room  where 
his  son  lay.  In  all  the  great  house  he  could  hear  no 
sound,  scarcely  even  the  tread  of  his  own  foot  on  the 
thick  carpeting. 

He  opened  the  door  almost  noiselessly  and  stood  by 
the  bed,  holding  the  lamp  high. 

But  noiselessly  though  Sir  Miles  had  come,  the  boy 
was  awake.  Nor  was  it  in  his  nature,  being  awake,  to 
feign  sleep.  He  looked  up,  blinking  a  little,  but  with 
no  fear  in  his  gentle  eyes. 

His  father  had  not  counted  on  this.  He  felt  an 
absurd  bashfulness  tying  his  tongue.  At  length  he 
struggled  to  say: 

"Thought  I'd  make  sure  you  were  comfortable. 
That's  all." 

"Oh,  yes— thank  you.  Comfortable  and— and— 
only  just  thinking  a  bit." 

"We'll  have  a  long  talk  to-morrow.  That  girl- 
she's  a  good  sort,  eh?" 

"Tilda?  .  .  .  Why,  of  course,  she  did  it  all.  She's 
the  best  in  the  world!" 


393 


EPILOGUE 

The  time  is  seven  years  later — seven  years  and  a 
half,  rather;  the  season,  spring;  the  hour,  eight  in  the 
morning;  and  the  place,  a  corner  of  Culvercoombe, 
where  Miss  Sally's  terraced  garden  slopes  to  meet  the 
wild  woodland  through  an  old  orchard  billowy  over- 
head with  pink  and  white  blossoms  and  sheeted  under- 
foot with  blue-bells.  At  the  foot  of  the  orchard,  and  on 
the  very  edge  of  the  woodland,  lies  a  small  enclosure, 
where  from  the  head  of  the  slope  you  catch  sight,  be- 
tween the  apple  trees,  of  a  number  of  white  stones 
glimmering;  but  your  eyes  rest  rather  on  the  figure  of 
a  girl  who  has  just  left  the  enclosure,  and  is  mounting 
the  slope  with  a  spade  on  her  shoulder. 

You  watch  her,  yourself  invisible,  while  she  ap- 
proaches. You  might  gaze  until  she  has  passed,  and 
yet  not  recognise  her  for  Tilda.  She  wears  a  coat  and 
skirt  of  gray  homespun,  fashioned  for  country  wear,  yet 
faultless  in  cut,  the  skirt  short  enough  to  reveal  a  pair 
of  trim  ankles  cased  in  shooting-gaiters.  Beneath  her 
gray  shooting-cap,  also  of  homespun,  her  hair  falls  in 
two  broad  bands  over  the  brows,  and  is  gathered  up  at 
the  back  of  the  head  in  a  plain  Grecian  knot.  By  the 
brows,  if  you  had  remarked  them  in  days  gone  by, 

394 


EPILOGUE 

when  neither  you  nor  she  gave  a  second  thought  to  her 
looks,  you  might  know  her  again;  or  perhaps  by  the 
poise  of  the  chin,  and  a  touch  of  decision  in  the  eyes. 
In  all  else  the  child  has  vanished,  and  given  place  to 
this  good-looking  girl,  with  a  spring  in  her  gait  and  a 
glow  on  her  cheek  that  tell  of  clean  country  nurture. 

At  the  head  of  the  path  above  the  orchard  grows  an 
old  ash  tree,  and  so  leans  that  its  boughs,  now  bursting 
into  leaf,  droop  pendent  almost  as  a  weeping  willow. 
Between  them  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  Bristol  Chan- 
nel, blue-gray  beyond  a  notch  of  the  distant  hills.  She 
pauses  here  for  a  look.  The  moors  that  stretch  for  miles 
on  all  sides  of  Culvercoombe  are  very  silent  this  sunny 
morning.  It  is  the  season  when  the  sportsman  pauses 
and  takes  breath  for  a  while,  and  neither  gun  nor  horn 
is  abroad.  The  birds  are  nesting;  the  stag  more  than 
a  month  since  has  "hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale,"  and 
hides  while  his  new  anders  are  growing  amid  the  young 
green  bracken  that  would  seem  to  imitate  them  in  its 
manner  of  growth;  the  hinds  have  dropped  their  calves, 
and  fare  with  them  unmolested.  It  is  the  moors'  hal- 
cyon time,  and  the  weather  to-day  well  befits  it. 

Tilda's  face  is  grave,  however,  as  she  stands  there  in 
the  morning  sunshine.  She  is  looking  back  upon  the 
enclosure  where  the  white  stones  overtop  the  blue-bells. 
They  are  headstones,  and  mark  the  cemetery  where 
Miss  Sally,  not  ordinarily  given  to  sentiment,  has  a 
fancy  for  interring  her  favourite  dogs. 

395 


TRUE  TILDA 

You  guess  now  why  Tilda  carries  a  spade,  and  what 
has  happened,  but  may  care  to  know  how  it  happened. 

Sir  Elphinstone  is  paying  a  visit  just  now  to  Culver- 
coombe.  He  regards  Tilda  with  mixed  feelings,  and 
Tilda  knows  it.  The  knowledge  nettles  her  a  little 
and  amuses  her  a  good  deal.  Just  now  Miss  Sally  and 
he  are  improving  their  appetites  for  breakfast  by  an 
early  canter  over  the  moor,  and  no  doubt  are  discussing 
her  by  the  way. 

Last  night,  with  the  express  purpose  of  teasing  him, 
Miss  Sally  had  asked  Tilda  to  take  up  a  book  and  read 
to  her  for  a  while.  The  three  were  seated  in  the  draw- 
ing-room after  dinner,  and  Sir  Elphinstone  was  begin- 
ning to  grow  impatient  for  his  game  of  piquet.  On  the 
hearthrug  before  the  fire  were  stretched  Godolphus  and 
three  of  Miss  Sally's  prize  setters ;  but  Goldolphus  had 
the  warmest  comer,  and  dozed  there  stertorously. 

The  book  chanced  to  be  Gautier's  Emaux  et  Camees, 
and  Tilda  to  open  it  at  the  Carnaval  de  Venise : 

"II  est  un  vieil  air  populaire 
Par  tous  les  violotis  racle, 
Aux  abois  de  chiens  en  colere 
Par  tous  les  orgues  nasille." 

She  read  the  first  verse  with  a  pure  clear  accent  and 
paused,  with  a  glance  first  at  the  hearthrug,  then  at  Sir 
Elphinstone  in  his  chair.  Perhaps  the  sight  of  him 
stirred  a  small  flame  of  defiance.  At  any  rate  she  closed 
the  book,  went  straight  to  the  piano,  and  recklessly 

396 


EPILOGUE 

rattled  out  the  old  tune,  at  once  so  silly  and  haunting. 
Had  she  not  heard  it  a  thousand  times  in  the  old  circus 
days? 

Her  eyes  were  on  the  keyboard.  Hardly  daring  to 
lift  them,  she  followed  up  the  air  with  a  wild  variation 
and  dropped  back  upon  it  again — not  upon  the  air  pure 
and  simple,  but  upon  the  air  as  it  might  be  rendered  by 
a  two-thirds-intoxicated  coachful  of  circus  bandsmen. 
The  first  half-a-dozen  bars  tickled  Miss  Sally  in  the 
midriff,  so  that  she  laughed  aloud.  But  the  laugh  ended 
upon  a  sharp  exclamation,  and  Tilda,  still  jangling, 
looked  up  as  Sir  Elphinstone  chimed  in  with  a  "What 
the  devil!"  and  started  from  his  chair. 

'Dolph  was  the  cause  of  it.  'Dolph  at  the  first  notes 
had  lifted  his  head,  unobserved.  Then  slowly  raising 
himself  on  his  rheumatic  fore  legs,  the  old  dog  heaved 
erect  and  waddled  toward  the  piano.  Even  so  no  one 
paid  any  heed  to  him  until,  halting  a  foot  or  so  from 
the  hem  of  Tilda's  skirt,  he  abased  his  head  to  the  car- 
pet while  his  hind  legs  strained  in  a  grotesque  effort  to 
pitch  his  body  over  in  a  somersault.  It  was  this  that 
Sir  Elphinstone  had  exclaimed. 

Tilda,  glancing  down  sideways  across  her  shoulder, 
saw  and  checked  a  laugh.  She  understood.  She  let  her 
fingers  rest  on  a  crashing  chord,  and  rose  from  the 
music-stool  as  the  dog  rolled  over  on  his  flank. 

'"Dolph!    My  poor  old  darling!" 

She  knelt  to  him,  stretching  out  her  arms.     The 

397 


TRUE  TILDA 

candle  light  fell  on  them,  and  on  the  sheen  of  her  even- 
ing frock,  and  on  the  small,  dark  curls  clustering  on  the 
nape  of  her  bowed  neck;  and  by  the  same  light  'Dolph 
lifted  his  head  and  gazed  up  at  her.  That  look  endured 
for  five  seconds,  perhaps;  but  in  it  shone  more  than  she 
could  remember,  and  more  than  she  could  ever  forget — 
a  life's  devotion  compressed  into  one  last  leap  of  the 
flame,  to  expire  only  with  life  itself.  As  her  hands  went 
swiftly  down  to  him,  his  tongue  strove  to  lick  them; 
but  his  head  fell  back,  and  his  spirit  went  out  into 
whatever  darkness  the  spirits  of  dead  dogs  possess. 

You  know  now  why  Tilda  is  not  riding  this  morning, 
why  she  carries  a  spade  on  her  shoulder,  and  why  her 
face  on  this  sunny  morning  wears  a  pensive  shadow  as 
she  gazes  back  through  the  orchard  tree.  But  'Dolph, 
the  circus  mongrel,  sleeps  among  hounds  of  nobler  breed 
and  shall  have  a  stone  as  honourable  as  any. 

Now,  if  you  were  to  look  more  closely,  you  might 
perceive  a  small  stain  of  green  on  the  front  of  the 
homespun  skirt  otherwise  so  trim,  and  might  jump  to 
the  erroneous  conclusion  that  before  leaving  the  enclos- 
ure she  had  knelt  to  say  a  prayer  over  the  snapping  of 
this  last  tie  with  her  old  disreputable  life.  It  is  not  pre- 
cisely Christian,  perhaps,  to  pray  over  a  dog's  grave; 
but  I  am  pretty  sure  that  Parson  Chichester,  who  has 
made  some  tentative  openings  toward  preparing  Tilda 
for  Confirmation,  would  overlook  the  irregularity,  and 
even  welcome  it  as  a  foreshadowing  of  grace.     But 

398 


EPILOGUE 

Parson  Chichester  is  a  discerning  man,  as  well  as  an 
honest;  and  for  some  reason,  although  Tilda  has  long 
passed  the  normal  age  to  be  prepared  for  that  rite,  he 
has  forborne  to  press  her  as  yet  even  to  be  baptised.  It 
will  all  come  in  time,  he  hopes ;  but  he  has  a  queer  soul 
to  deal  with. 

— A  queer  soul,  and  (as  he  perceives)  a  self-respecting 
one.  If  she  come  to  it,  she  will  come  in  her  own  time. 
So  let  it  be  confessed,  as  a  secret  she  would  be  extremely 
annoyed  to  hear  revealed  that  she  did  indeed  kneel  five 
minutes  since,  but  with  no  thought  of  religion;  to  try 
rather,  over  'Dolph's  grave,  if  she  could  bend  her  body 
back  in  the  old  acrobatic  trick. 

She  could  not,  of  course.  She  had  known  that  she 
could  not  even  as — with  a  glance  around  her  to  make 
sure  she  was  unobserved — she  had  made  the  effort. 
Time  had  taken  away  the  old  Tilda  with  the  old 
'Dolph.  She  was  a  girl  grown,  a  girl  with  limbs  firmed 
by  outdoor  sports  and  country  living.  And  she  had 
learnt  much — so  much,  that  to  have  learnt  it  she  had 
necessarily  forgotten  much.  You  or  I,  meeting  her  this 
morning  for  the  first  time,  had  made  no  doubt  of  her 
being  a  young  lady  of  rather  exceptional  breeding. 

She  looked  back  to  the  spot  where  'Dolph  rested 
among  dogs  of  loftiest  race.  She  knew  that  Sir  Elphin- 
stone  and  Miss  Sally  were  discussing  her  while  they 
rode,  and  she  could  hear  two  words  Sir  Elphinstone  let 
fall.     She  repeated  them  to  herself —"  Nobody's  child.'* 

399 


TRUE  TILDA 

She  did  not  remember  that  she  had  once  thanked  her 
gods  for  it. 

The  rural  postman  carried  a  brass  cowhorn,  and 
made  a  practice  of  sounding  it  as  he  mounted  the  road 
leading  to  Culvercoombe.  Its  note,  sounding  through 
the  clear  morning  air,  aroused  Tilda  from  her  brown 
study,  and  she  ran  lightly  up  the  slope  to  catch  him  on 
the  upper  terrace. 

He  handed  her  the  day's  mail — a  dozen  letters  or 
more,  and  among  them  one  addressed  to  her.  In  the 
whole  world  was  but  one  handwriting  that  ever  came 
for  her;  recognisable  always,  though  with  each  post  it 
grew  firmer  in  character. 

The  envelope  bore  an  Italian  stamp  and  a  Neapolitan 
postmark.  Arthur  Miles  was  a  midshipman  now,  soon 
to  be  a  second  lieutenant;  his  ship,  the  Indomitable, 
attached  to  the  Mediterranean  fleet.  She  broke  the 
seal.  .  .  .  The  letter  was  a  boyish  one,  full  of  naval 
slang,  impersonal,  the  sort  of  letter  growing  boys  write 
to  their  mothers.  But  Arthur  Miles  had  no  mother; 
and  if  he  wrote  to  his  father,  Tilda  knew  that  he  wrote 
more  formally. 

"We  were  sent  up  here,"  the  letter  said,  "on  getting 
word  that  Vesuvius  meant  to  erupt  badly,  and  that  we 
might  be  useful.  But  the  show  seems  to  be  hanging 
fire,  and  we  may  be  ordered  back  to  Malta  at  any  mo- 
ment.   Half-a-dozen  of  us  made  up  a  picnic  yesterday, 

400 


EPILOGUE 

to  have  a  look  at  the  crater  at  close  quarters.  We 
cooked  some  eggs  on  it,  to  show  our  unconcern,  and 
while  we  were  cooking  them  up  came  an  American, 
who  had  pitched  camp  in  the  foolhardiest  spot.  Guess 
why — to  paint  it!  Guess  who  he  was — why,  Jessup! 
Do  you  remember  Jessup?  He  introduced  himself, 
and  I  knew  him  at  once;  but  he  did  not  know  me,  and 
I  did  not  enlighten  him.  He  said  that  the  Art  of  the 
Future  must  depend  on  the  development  of  wireless 
telegraphy,  and  that  in  the  meanwhile  he  was  just 
marking  time  with  earthquakes." 

Tilda,  having  read  thus  far,  looks  up  at  the  sound  of 
horses'  hoofs.  Miss  Sally  and  Sir  Elphinstone  are 
returning  from  their  ride. 

"And,  after  all,  why  not?"  Miss  Sally  is  saying. 

"The  very  mistake  his  father  made!" 

"Homoeopathy  is  one  of  my  fads,  remember." 

"A  nobody's  child!" 

"True;  and  so  would  he  have  been,  but  for  her." 

THE   END 


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